Beautiful burden

I'm not sure where to begin. I'm not the girl that used to fill these pages anymore. I look back and I remember these moments, I remember these words and the more I read the more I came feel those same... pangs.  But they feel different somehow. Like I'm reading someone else's past. And it is hard to describe how I'm feeling about it. Like I've lost someone important. Like I'm grieving. And I hate to even admit this but there are moments, tiny moments, where I miss it.  I miss the depths that those feelings reached. And I wonder...and I fear mostly...whether I have lost something I never took the time to cherish correctly.  As I have grown and matured and achieved so many things that I did not even know I wanted I miss the need for these pages, for this special kind of cathartic release.

I fell in love with that boy that I was so scared to let in...and he did not judge me. 

I let go of that boy that I was unsure I ever could...and I was able to breathe in a way I had not since we first met.

I finished school and I got the dream job...and i didn't fail.  I've been working for 5 years in a field that I am passionate about. I'm doing what I always hoped that I could. I'm helping people...changing the world one day at a time.

That boy that i finally let in got down on one knee and asked a question I was unsure anyone would ever ask...and I said yes. We got married and we have built a beautiful home.

And one day I made the decision that I was ready for more.  I'm a mother to a staggeringly independent tiny human that I cannot imagine ever living without.

The love that I experience now is new. And each day I wake up and I go about my day I don't feel like I need this anymore. I feel like just living is enough.

But there are moments. Tiny lapses in confidence and calm when I realize that my passion has been lost. Great art comes from pain. And my life when I was young was dependent upon that pain. It was expected. It made me who I was. And somewhere along the way I learned that suffering was the fuel for my writing. And I began to have a sick sort of relationship with it. Self sabotaging and angsty, but such a beautiful burden.

And when I sit down to write without it I cannot help but notice that it is mundane. That I cannot have both creativity and peace, or that maybe if I can it is not the creativity that I used to burn so deeply for. And the pain returns, just briefly enough for me to reflect on this.

Will I ever stop expecting the worst to happen...ever stop relishing in my disappointments and my doubts...ever stop waiting for a reason to run? Because even as I write this I recognize that is exactly what I'm missing.  I don't miss that look in his eyes when he realizes I'm not enough...or the crack in someone's voice when they prepare me for bad news...or that glance from a stranger that conveys both sympathy and disgust for my sadness. 

I miss those moments when I was pushed so far and so hard that I had no choice but to keep moving, keep fighting and show them that I would never give up. I miss having an opportunity to run and show myself what I could do.  The moments where I was tested and I came out wounded but no longer afraid. And I fear I will live my entire life holding my breath and waiting for that feeling to return.

But as I prepare for my evening discussing dinner prep and bedtime routines I feel...content.  and it hurts to admit that I miss the beautiful chaos that I grew to expect.

He is enough. They are enough. I am enough.

But can I sacrifice this?