A thousand percent stuck. Writing will save me. It has always saved me. It will continue to safely corral my thoughts into something tangible I can begin to make sense of.

I am stuck for a reason.

Little pieces of my soul cry for the sad child who didn’t feel secure. I am stuck here because she felt so sad she couldn’t tell anyone. For years and years and years and when she finally could she wasn’t a child anymore and it’s quite confusing to shed tears that needed to come alongside someone else, twenty-five years ago. It is one thing to cry alone, and another altogether to be with someone when crying. I cried alone a lot. Never exposing those raw emotions, never letting anyone else in because it wasn’t safe.

I am stuck here, because that little girl needed to cry with someone. She needed to not feel alone. It’s ok that I’m stuck here. I will not be stuck here forever. But, there is no timeline for how long I can be here. I’m not dragging it out or exaggerating. I am simply receiving what I needed a very long time ago for a very long time and that might take…a while.

Because I am showing up for myself. 

The desert has soaked up enough of my tears. I don’t need to cry alone anymore. I need to cry in all the places there is emotional security. I need to accept all the people willing to sit in my awkwardness and move into my space even as I pull away because they know that’s the eating disorder pulling away. Not me. Certainly not the ten-year-old furiously filling up all the pages in her journal.

She needs you to move into her space.