For every woman who’s known the death & rebirth of love- Today I sit in a cafe having breakfast. One week in London, sitting in the discomfort over blown over expectations & being alone in a country that’s not home. I order a Mediterranean breakfast and savor each bite. I feel the stickiness of the jam between my fingers and giggle as I feel the polarity of it all. How life feels sticky right now, but sweet all the same. I got a photo memory today which sent a familiar pang down my spine. A story I thought was unfinished, but three years later I see the fullness. The protection over me that this story was completed. The cycle of the ones I knew as a child shattered. I look at these photos as tears stream down my face. A woman starved of life, a woman not in her power. I see her frail bones, her brittle nails, but I deeply feel her nervous system. I cry for her. In sadness but also elation. Because what I’ve found since has set me on fire. The curiosity of the quest. The mystery of life itself. The knowing that at any point life can turn on its head. The last three years have changed me to my very core. I’ve watched my body change, my inner world grow calm, so when the storms of life’s uncertainties rage, I sit with them. I watch them rumble. I lean on my friends, my counsel. I eat hearty meals and cry with the moon. I ride horses and climb trees and dance with the windows open for all to see. I share my stories loudly with courage as a reminder to us all. That we are never alone, always connected, and better together. Three years later, and I am free. I look at these photos as I scarf down my breakfast, gently reminded of the twenty pounds I’ve gained in the last three years. Then I ask myself, have I gotten bigger, or have I just never been this full? Keep on, sweet friends. Our stories are always only just beginning. 🩷