She sits on the floor, face in her hands. It’s not the first time we’ve been here; yet I pray it will be the last.
We talk about our days, sharing the random happenings that constitute our daily routines. She tells me it feels like she’s been putting her affairs in order. Telling her story before it’s too late.
I’m not sure how to respond. In some ways she’s right – telling the stories has a finality about it. A sense of closure.
Closure, yes, but not the end.
A page break perhaps.
You can tell your story and let it be a testament to the fact that
that you’ve made it this far and you’re not giving up now. It doesn’t mean you have to go away.
It’s an ending, not the end.
All of us need to tell our stories, to know that our lives matter. Every day we tell them in a myriad of ways: a chord progression in a song; the words in a blog post; a glance across the room that catches someone’s eye, begging to be understood.
In truth, we’re all searching for validation, aren’t we?
Maybe some of us are more honest about it, or maybe we just can’t hide our need as easily.
We all want someone to tell us that we matter, that their lives are made better for our being a part of it.
I wont claim to have any special wisdom, to be anything I’m not.
I’m a broken, messed up girl.
But I’m loved.
There are many days when I don’t feel that, many days when I don’t sense that affirmation. Many days when I wonder if the past will haunt me forever. Many nights when the tears just wont stop.
But I am loved; I am affirmed.
And because it’s true, so is this:
You matter. Your story matters.
Don’t let anyone take it from you.