I’m scared.
But this is a new fear.
This is the fear that comes from zero hiding or numbing myself for over a week.
From nothing but listening.
From brutal truth having gushed out of me all week like a messy torrent of blood and placenta and baby and joy and love and terror and inadequacy and insecurity and fear and terror and oh my god I’m not big enough to do this.
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid that if I let myself feel it all – all the feelings inside me, my dam will break. That the cold hard wall I’ve put up between me and the world will collapse in one big, beautiful, terrible heap and that all that’ll be left is truth.
The raw truth of what the world is.
The raw, terrible truth that life is unthinkably messy and not ok and horrifyingly unjust.
And at the same time, the gastronomical amount of love that is everywhere, in everything and all around.
It’s the most heart wrenching truth that feels unfixable and at the same time, I no longer feel like I have the right in my middle classed life to stay frozen, doing absolutely nothing to create a new story for this world. I have to be a part of the change and solution.
I know that I can’t keep sitting on my laurels anymore whining about my trauma stories or just talking about reconnecting to your soul or inner voice to my safe, psychic hippies.
I have to stand up for the souls who can’t stand for themselves.
I have to fight for the world that I live in.
Whether I have children or not.
I have to fight for the earth because I love her. She is my greatest friend and has stood by me when every human failed to do so. And I love her as my friend and ally and know I have to help her. It’s my turn.
But I’m scared.
I thought this whole time that I was scared of the haters.
Of the backlash.
Of those who wanna hate me for starting tough conversations that’ll rock 5 billion boats and beliefs.
For saying no to injustice – even when it’s widely accepted by the silence of millions (including my own).
But actually, beneath that, what I’m most scared of is the unfreeze.
Of completely unfreezing.
Of the tsunami of emotion after 40 years of numbing.
I tried lots of ways to numb.
Drugs, escapism and isolation were my personal sweet spots.
But now, they feel outdated. Like toys I’ve outgrown.
And my soul is nudging me (aka – screaking like a raging lunatic at me) “ENOUGH!”.
“Take your great, clumsy step in the fight for justice.
Join the march.
You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t.”
This truth lands in me like I just swallowed a watermelon whole.
I’m suddenly pregnant, bloated and so full, I’m scared I’ll explode or die.
I feel out of control with these feelings to act.
The numbing kept me in control.
Safe.
On my island alone, with nature and God.
“Join the world.
Join life again.
It’s time.”
“I’m scared,” I answer.
“Doing nothing will kill you,” they say.
It’s time to birth my watermelon.
I don’t know how.
I’m scared of all the ways I could spectacularly f*ck this up.
All the mistakes I’m definitely going to make along the way.
But I know I have no choice anymore.
So now it’s not a matter of whether I will or won’t go into battle.
It’s about listening.
Razor sharp. To the eagle inside me, guiding me, telling me the sweetest, simplest, best path of action for me to take. My path, my way.
I thought my paralysis was about the meanies.
But the whole time, that was a big, fat excuse.
It’s about me. It’s always been about me.
About my unwillingness to face the terror in the birthing room.
Not knowing what will happen.
Not knowing who will live or die.
Just knowing I have to be there.
That I was born to be there.
That it’s a privilege to be there.
And to simply be a part of the entire wonderful, terrible piece of it all.
Every tear of joy and fear and sweat and relief. Each one a privilege.
I’m in a self-imposed de-numbing incubation booth and it’s f*cking brutal.
But without it, I stay closed, hidden, safe and get no real life.
With it, I get zero safety but possibly – everything.