last night, I reached out to one of the safest spaces I have ever had the privilege of calling a friend and a sister,
and as if we were completely aligned,
she took the words right out of my mouth
in the way that she sincerely requested some girl time.
time to expose.
time to be honest.
time to just stop for a second and take inventory of where we're at.
and when we finally got on the phone this morning and dedicated the next hour and half to each other,
we found that we were so effortlessly human in our current experiences,
regardless of how different our seasons looked from the outside.
I spent the rest of the morning feeling soft.
soft as water.
soft as the quiet mistakes we make.
soft like the absence of a firm body.
we excavated because it was safe
it made me so deeply grateful for this sanctuary in someone.
that we could meet where we were,
abandoning judgement and embracing desperation to see each other clearly.
and even though the hours to follow left me on the verge of tears,
it wasn't sadness;
it was the aftermath of laying where I am and where she's been
out on the table
and knowing that
is the visceral part in the story where we make a decision
to keep on going.
we make the decision that this
completely unadulterated part of vulnerability
is where we find out just how capable we are.
we define our capacity and we ask the question,
"how do I continue?"
we find that our voice is not always a simple whisper
but a "bold as all hell" declaration that we are not existing for the purpose of perfection,
but to be limitless in how possible it is to stand in our humanity
and yet, still live in the center of connection and love and autonomy and power and knowledge.
there is so much more that I am urgent to share,
but right now I'll leave this processing remnant for you:
they say that sleep is where our body resets itself of the day;
so maybe our spirit is the same.
maybe we find that same rehabilitation as we lay in the room of exposure
and in the epilogue,
we find that vulnerability does not have to be a home to fear.
it can just be the room
with the bed
promising us our rest.