The color of love stays clear and pure, the way you can see the color of glass, and the color of water. The color of love runs through, and true, rising up with smoke and lingering with the ashes. The color of love isn’t red, or blue, or pink. The color of love is evanescent.

The taste of love isn’t blood, or iron. The taste of love is clear and dear, dancing around your tongue, like when you thirst for water on a hot summer’s day, even as your skin runs with beads of sweat. You thirst, and crave, as if starving wasn’t good enough. The taste of love runs through lovers’ lips, shared among kisses, lingering with perfume and cologne. Lingering with lust and love. Lingering with the touch of love. The taste of love coils around you like a snake, until you beg for more, out of breath, because more is never enough.

The feel of love fits like a well woven glove, warm and fuzzy like a bear’s hug. So rough and tender at the same time, holding true yet vulnerable and delicate. The feel of love mingles with the freshness of spring air and the winter’s chill, when pecks are too quick and hip-to-hip isn’t close enough. The feel of love whines for more, when you can get so close to the other that you become lost into their skin. You feel what he feels. He feels what you feel. Intertwined into a potion of pooled services for each other.

Remind me what all those things were like, dear love. Remind me when my senses were overwhelmed and overpowered. Remind me of the hot breaths of pants. When life was hard around the edges and we were soft to the touch. Remind me what it felt like when you couldn’t get enough, and it was okay. Remind me what it was like when I was enough, and you wanted more. Remind me what it was like when we were one, woven together by two. Fingers lingered on skin so taut, little hairs and goosebumps defined our existence. When the universe was dancing on our fingertips and the world was conquered through our eyes.

Remind me of the breath of love. Remind me.

Let’s see how this goes.

My Shitty First Draft captured in a forgotten blog.

Let’s see how this goes.

I stretch, and twist, and turn and whirl. Bubbly throat and knotted stomach. The sprinkles of light inside me that grow and grow and grow, strung along with connected tears. My “ugly” cry is something that has been hidden and forbidden. Cast and trashed. Doesn’t mark my true character. It is the rage that lives inside, the scars that never die, the wound that doesn’t heal.

Let’s see how this goes.

Sometimes it doesn’t work when you try so hard to live, to adult, to be good. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, the only thing that really feels good and vindicates your troubled mind is maybe throwing a rock in the window of the house that you built. Sometimes, giving up seems enticing because you’re exhausted from “fighting the good fight.”

So we’ll see how this goes.

Because it’s hard. All of it is hard. Whole-hearted living bears down on the soul because it’s hard on you. It’s hard on the softest parts of you. It leaves you tender when you fall. Your face gets muddled up and scratched with wounds that don’t seem to heal. When you dare greatly, sometimes it doesn’t always work. You get laughed at, scolded, and flashes of anger dance in front of you, in the form of someone you love. Someone you trust. And it isn’t fair. None of it is fair. But they say life isn’t supposed to be fair. Just unpredictable and wild.

So we’ll see how this goes.

Which of all this do I deserve? Do I deserve to love, to be loved, to do good, to be good? Do I deserve to be okay with the me I see in the mirror, or the me he sees through the glass of his eyes? What could be handled if I let it all hang out, let it all show and let it all shine, and rot, in front of people? What could be handled? Would I still be worthy? Would I still have people? Would I still have my tribe? What would it all look like?

So we’ll see how this goes.

By the end of the day, I am exhausted. I am exhausted of holding it all up, keeping my head high, carefully straining and carefully cocking my head, in a thoughtful, compassionate, loving manner. I’m exhausted and I want to sleep the pain away. Sleep the doubt away. Sleep the uncertainty away. Sleep the pseudo-confidence away. The edge of despair meets the cusp of hope. Somewhere, the two intertwine and mix and become beautiful, inseparable, and foreboding.

So I guess we’ll see how this goes.

There is something happening in the middle of my rib cage. It drums and drums to the rhythm of a mystic beat that sometimes doesn’t sound familiar to me. This liveliness scares me sometimes, and I am left vulnerable but powerful to the entity that shows itself. I reach out to you. I reach out hard, and long, and fast. And I reach out because dear you, please don’t hurt me. Dear you, when you hold this connection like a tentative little baby bird, ever so slightly vibrating in your hands. Its fragile heart beating so fast, so afraid, yet so lovely and vibrant.

Because dear you, the one who holds me at a distance, with walls impenetrable and large, looming and dark. If I were a bird, would you let me fly, still tethered to your beating heart so that there will always be a safe haven when I am to return? If I were a river, would you be the ocean that holds me accountable to the streams that drift apart from you? Will you still be a part of me? If I were a corpse, would you be the last breath I took before I bid farewell? Dear you, the slight and delicate beat that drums to the rhythm of my every need.

Because dear you, hold it true, hold it well, hold it fast and strong. I am not as threatening or as huge as my frail arms do pretend. I am delicate, and practically lifeless. Because dear you, please don’t hurt me. I belong to you.

It tastes like a thousand broken shards dipped in scalding hot honey. It is meant to sneak into your unsuspecting mouth by its sweet honey smell, only to stab and jab at your insides when you take a bite. The shards rip the inside of your cheeks, leaving them raw, bleeding, and awed by shocked horror.

And yet there is no relief from the would-be sweetness of honey. Because the temperature doesn’t send relief by cooling off, it stays scalding in your mouth while the spoonful cuts your tongue. It coils your words and minces your thoughts. Instead of sweet words you meant to say, the taste is so bitter that your words become poison and defensive. It leaves you feeling betrayed and defeated. You want to spit it out. No no, take it all back. It was a dirty trick. Disgusting in nature and no one asked for this. But the taste lingers and kills. You can’t do anything but swallow the bitter, rotten mouthful. And it goes down your throat like hot lava, making its way through your body, cutting and destroying everything in its path.

The mouthful spreads into your veins, takes over your blood stream. It cuts, it cuts, it cuts. There is no relief.

From the outside, you may even be able to fake the pain inside. You lick your lips and swallow the blood, smiling through sad, disappointed eyes. No I’m fine. I’m okay. How are you?

Once it’s in, that bitter honey slides through smoothly inside you. It invades every part of you. It takes away what was good about you. It strips you naked and then ridicules you. It laughs and sneers at you. Until there is nothing left. Until even the best armour you’ve built can’t hide the bleeding pores as you sweat out all the goodness and keep all the ugly.

The pain overwhelms you and you wish for nothing but sweet sweet sleep. Sometimes you can forget when you’re asleep. But you wake up everyday again, and in the morning you look around, and you see he bloody sweat.

You put your armour on. And you go on.

There is a pause inside my type of living lately. A small pause, that catches my breath and holds me still. Still to the silence of the night, yet makes me afraid of the dark. A little more than I usually am. I am afraid of the vulnerability of my heart. It captures and opens, and the pause rests within my soul and makes me wonder what I’m doing here.

Here in this space that seems so gray, without certainty but hopefully with lots of forgiveness and room to move. My legs wave through the bitter measure of discomfort, and all the unknown that I would somehow need to sift through. Each step I take makes it a little less hard, but also at the same time makes it more pronounced that my story isn’t complete yet. I wonder what is on the next page.

I feel like I am the constant semicolon. I don’t know how to finish this sentence, but I know something needs to happen. It isn’t an end, nor is it a beginning. It is something that needs to continue in a different way; a brave way. Whatever the next page is, it requires bravery, it requires blind faith, it requires careful measure and counting, it requires a leap of intense and vulnerable love. I am learning. I am opening up and flowering, but some days it is easier to close up and unlearn.

This pause is painful. This pause is necessary.

Madness and love and kindness and ravaging, beautifully aching horror of it all. Sometimes life is just like this. With my fingers clenched around the steering wheel, often with tears rolling down my face, it is with this realization that I find myself thinking how incredibly unfair, yet oddly noble, life can be. The ache of not fully knowing, and the knowledge that perhaps somehow this is okay, can only be described as confusing and beautiful.

In the moments when I am at my worst, shame and terror cross the deepest, most inconsolable parts of my being. I am not good. I am not well. I am forsaken and should be forgotten. And then as if that isn’t enough, here comes the meta-shame. I should not feel this way. I am not good for feeling not good. I should be more compassionate, and kind to myself.

Did you know that research has found that in order to teach your children the act of compassion and empathy, in order to make it a habit for them in their daily living, you must be kind and compassionate to yourself? Did you know that if they see you be kind to yourself, they are more likely to be kind to the world? This baffles me. All this time I have had it wrong. And yet this makes so much sense. Why didn’t I see it sooner? Why wasn’t this incredibly transparent way of thinking and being apparent to me before now? Why did it need to “click” now, after I’ve got two children and one feels like she is as old as time itself? Why didn’t this click for me sooner, while I was trying to live to be perfect all the time? Sometimes cruelty takes not the form of living in shame, but the form of the realization that you did so for no apparent good reason at all. All those years shaming and blaspheming myself to the bitter core of the darkest, deepest places inside me. Were they all for naught?

That to teach my girls to be kind to each other, to be kind to the world, to be kind to themselves, I must start with myself? Why couldn’t it be easier? I can be kind to so many people. I can be good to so many people. I can take care of so many. I can do so much. I can always do more. But to give reason to be all those things to myself — well, that is just too much. Self love often comes with the price of guilt and a collective sigh of arrogance. The path towards humility I thought was the path opposite of self love. In actuality, all this time, it is simply the same path to the same place after all.

I must be kind. To myself.

A couple of years before our firstborn entered this world and changed our lives forever, I had a compelling dream. I dreamt of a little girl who needed rescuing. I don’t recall the setting of the dream, but I recall the feeling. I was chasing after this little girl in a dress, with dark hair in her eyes, and I whisked her away from danger. She clung closely to my shoulders and snuggled into my neck. She didn’t call me mommy or anything, really. But I remember the ferocity of the determination I felt to save her, to keep her safe, to let the world’s pain slip off her shoulders like water off silken paper.

Years later, after our Lily was born, it was only then that I realized I dreamt this beautiful little baby girl up. She was the girl in my dreams. I am not a religious person, but I am spiritual and I’d like to believe that I am at least somewhat in tuned with the universe. Somehow, I always knew I was going to be a mom to a girl. At least one girl. Now I am blessed with two.

I understood from afar the complexities of being a parent. A mother. A woman parent. I understood that the responsibility is grand beyond all other measures of life. More so than being a good daughter, it is weighed heavily on women to be good mothers. I unreasonably and naively thought that this would be easy to do. I know what kind of mother I’ve always wanted, and the kind I was given sometimes felt like I was given the short end of the stick. I knew then that I would work harder, try better, at being more than what I was given.

No one could have prepared me for the mind craze that comes with motherhood. In all actuality, motherhood means living with guilt, fear, pain, and a tremendous amount of incredible and unequivocal love that feels like your chest will rip open right in front of you. It doesn’t feel real some days. It feels miraculous and frightening. Most days, I run through my life doing my absolute best but never quite my absolute perfect. By the end of the day, I sleep exhausted and mind numb with feelings of guilt and shortcomings. I am not perfect, I will never be perfect, and I cannot rid the guilt I feel because of this.

It is easy to tell a parent to “do their best” and be okay with it. There is nothing more to give outside of your “best.” There are many days I wish I can be more than I am. There are still many days I know I cannot be more than I am. The mind already knows the impossible task I set myself to, yet the heart and the soul refuse to give up. Because really, at the end of the day, at the end of eternity, these girls chose me to be their mother. They chose me. And I can’t help but feel that they’ve made a terrible choice in the matter. They could have chosen someone much more patient, much more worthy, much kinder and more intelligent. They could have chosen someone with so much more to give, yet they chose me. And on my worst days, when I grow impatient and my temper just falls short of beautiful, I wonder if the damage I am doing to their esteem means they will one day regret ever choosing me at all.

For a mother of daughters, there is much to do. There is much to teach simultaneously. To teach confidence and humility. To teach patience and strength. To instill in them the ever-flowing capacity for kindness and the silent yet firm hand of character. To give them grace and will power. To role model strength and power in the midst of fear and weakness. To be okay with fear and weakness while striving for strength and power. It is a task not made for the weak of heart or the tender of character.

Raising daughters is a delicate task. We belong to a sisterhood of love and competition. Sometimes our cruelest friends are the ones we love the most. Sometimes our biggest teachers are the ones we call enemies. More often than not, we learn best from our vulnerable moments and we grow from the tenderness of our love and the strength of our tears. We fall into the hands of those who make us rage and we take comfort on the shoulders of those who let us cry. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, in the beauty of the light of day and the glory of night, I should know how to teach all these things as a mother. But I don’t even know how to gracefully walk it as a woman half the time.

I hope that somehow, I am teaching them grace in my shortcomings. I hope that somehow, when I am at my worst, I am teaching imperfections and acceptance. I hope that somehow, when I am giving examples of what not to be, I also show them that I am vulnerable when I am at my worst, and they get all of me. They get all of me. Even when I don’t want them to, they still get all of me. My relationship with them is something beautiful and terrifying. The motherhood of the story of my life is the most beautiful because it is the most vulnerable.

I hope that in my own imperfect way, I am protecting them and keeping them safe.

What does it feel like when your insides turn and toil, twist and tumble? Through the world’s pain, and your own, there really isn’t any difference between the two. I wander the roads of my mind like a lost tourist, not able to grasp what should be home. Struggle, they say, makes us stronger, and pain makes us more resilient. But after having tasted the triumph of surety and completeness, I am not sure — in fact, I know that I don’t — want to hear the sounds of defeat or taste the bitterness of the war inside my mind.

What does it feel like when your gut wavers and wanders, without the champion of the soft and gentle cushion of what you thought were facts? No one loves or revels in the stuff that anxiety is made of, but do we ever really rid of it? Do we ever really free it from our hungry grasps when we are most weak? I would love to hold onto a piece of unwavering belief. I thought I had that, but now I am not so sure.

What does it feel like when you weep when the world weeps? When the flesh on your skin begins to dance with goosebumps and pain every time you see someone else in pain? There has been a lot of loss lately. I don’t know how to make sense of this. I see it everywhere I turn. I see mothers losing babies. I see sisters losing brothers. I see sons losing mothers. I see wives losing husbands. Sometimes the deaths come slow like grinding nails against sandpaper. Sometimes they come quick and fleeting, like a firm and harsh slap against the face when you’re looking the other way. But in the end, the result is the same: you lose, you grieve, you maybe accept for just a brief blissful moment in your life, and then you grieve again as if you’re losing all over again.

What does it feel like?

It is a Friday evening, and the kids are in bed. There is a stream of tiny little thoughts invading my mind. It is time I start writing again, though it feels like it has been so long now that I don’t remember how the words used to flow so easily through me and onto the screen.

The best time to write for me has been in the car while driving. That is when my thoughts start being dissected and start transforming into images of words inside my head. Of course, that is the worst time for me to write, since I’m, y’know, driving and all. It has been years since I’ve felt at ease with the pen — or rather, the keyboard. It has been years since the images in my mind turned into images on the screen, curved with letters and formed into words that color others’ eyes. I wonder if this gift that used to come so prevalent can make its way home again.

Home. Home has always been where the words are. Before I was a therapist, I was a writer. Before I was a mother, I was writer. Before I was a photographer, I was a writer. I met my husband through words. And now, for years it seems, I have abandoned home.

Let’s come home together, these thoughts of mine. It is time again that I start rebuilding my legacy through words.