I will always be grateful for therapy.
Years ago, now, I sat in a stale, small, windowless room, with my knees pressed tightly to my chest. I leaned deep into awkwardness, into the past, and into opening my heart, painfully, one stitch at a time.
As often happens with hearts, wide open it bled, it cracked, and I thought it would probably never mend. It was disfiguring. It felt like death.
But the funny thing about damaged hearts? About that tear-stricken pain?
On the other side, the brokenness heals. The open wound begins to close, and this time, there’s nothing slowly decaying underneath.
Stitch by stitch, guided by a woman three times my age (and ultimately, my Creator), I opened myself for the first time to love. To genuine love.
That relationship ended in a car crash similar to that ever-famous scene in Blues Brothers, and yet- this thanksgiving season has me indebted to those college hours. Because there is something new budding in my life, and I catch myself wanting to push back, to build walls, to examine under a microscope with cynicism and disbelief.
Years later, older (but barely wiser), I know both sides of relationship well: open wins.
So instead, I shuffle forward. Small steps, yes, but steps possible because of that teeny room and tenderhearted woman.
(praise).
Live Color Fully 
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