Strong

Though it seems contrary to the actual word – STRONG-   I feel there is strength in the breaking, in the letting go. In the admission of this feels like I’m failing, that life- in all its beauty and glory, is just too much. That it daily requires more than I feel I have capacity for, and the knowing that come day’s end, I will be rung dry, having used up all my stores.

Oh my- how my views have changed. From the naivety of a young girl whom envisioned a STRONG women/wife/mama a combination of Domestic Goddess/Wonder Women. Always able to do anything, and everything- all the time, and look great doing it! Whether by words spoken, messages sent out and over all images portrayed.

The undoing, the journey of getting to this place was a bumpy one, tearing down facades and lies, and silencing things that didn’t want to stay quiet- 

I’m in the process of rewriting my own definition of STRONG.

Just like a physical muscle that is strengthened and worked, challenged and pushed past the point of its former capacity, to be torn, the fibers ripped, rendering it initially weaker, with healing and restoration it is made stronger, with a greater capacity.

I love remembering simple analogies like this when I look in the mirror and see the darkness under my eyes- at first glance it might say not entirely “Domestic Goddess” like- but my heart corrects. They speak of many nights of broken sleep, of comforting babies, soothing fears, praying for good dreams and miles walked, up and down the hall between my bed and theirs.

The silver that now gracefully grows at my temples may scream “premature signs of aging” quick get to the salon and get that taken care of. But I’m quick to correct that lie- It’s a witness of my many trips around the sun, of all my hill tops and valleys, all the brights and the dark, to cover it would be take away some of my story.

As I pull my mama loving high rise jeans into place, knowing they tenderly hold my pregnancy slackened belly, and that no matter how hard I work out, or how much weight I loose, it will always fold softly, crepe like, filled with lines and tearing of the fiber. It holds the start of their story within those lines, the sacred time when our story was one. It speaks of the strength it takes to bring such beauty into the world.

I’m grateful that my original image was crushed under the heedy weight of something real, flawed and uniquely beautiful.

Village Journalist,

Amanda

Krystal DonovanComment