Not everyone deserves your vulnerability.
I recently got naked with a lover. Not the physical kind. We actually never met in real life. But we had more intimacy than I’d had with some past lovers, which is proof that emotional nudity is way more revealing than the physical parts we keep hidden from most of the world.
I actually haven’t gotten physically naked with someone in over 6 months. It’s been a conscious choice. In the past, the physical always made feelings develop more quickly and perhaps inorganically. The oxytocin released during sex and physical connection isn’t real love — at least not for me.
How time and writing and single-parenthood come together on a yoga mat.
My mind put on boxing gloves as it awoke this morning. It knew it was on a time crunch. T-minus a few hours until my daughter would be picked up from her father’s house to spend the weekend with me. When she is with me, I can’t write.
With tight fists, my thoughts jabbed at me as I made my morning coffee. Hurry up and get writing. As I ate my cereal my mind gave me a little air punch to the gut. My bowl of cereal left me feeling hungry. Yet I dare not waste time eating more. Hurry up and get writing. The threat of a fight with my mind sent a shiver down my spine.
It’s time to stop fighting and learn the not-so-easy art of surrender.
I met my soul in my dreams as a young child. I awoke every morning with a burning feeling that I was on this planet for a purpose. Slowly, over the course of the day, I would forget my dreams and start to feel haunted by the sense of inner struggle I observed in the adults around me. They seemed to be fighting an inner battle. And losing. The astute child in me saw through that bullsh*t and vowed to do differently. Unfortunately, my spongelike brain had already integrated the struggle into my nervous system. Fighting was something I was conditioned to do; maybe you were too.
The soul can withstand the inner battle. It will always come out as the victor, but maybe not in the way that we hoped it would.
A parent’s love-hate relationship with their children’s bodily goo.
I hate poop. H.A.T. E. it. Hate is a strong word, I know. From dirty diapers to accidents in undies, I’ve had uncountable moments cleaning, smelling (or trying not to) and griping over ongoing poopcidents (yes, I made that word up).
Ironically where hate lives, love isn’t far behind.
Soul Writer. Single Mama. Life ponderer. Nature Lover. Therapist. Introvert. HSP & Empath. Life is my playground and each day a blank canvas.