I shared something in a recording yesterday that I am not sure I have ever said out loud before.
After my mom died when I was eight, I spent more than twenty years trying to keep the grief pushed down. I tried to be perfect. I tried to be the version of myself that would make everyone else comfortable.
Looking back, I think I became used to being depressed. It became familiar. Predictable. In some ways it almost felt like an addiction. The identity I knew how to carry.
When I finally started allowing myself to grieve, something unexpected showed up. A little fear.
Who am I if I am not the person defined by that sadness anymore?
Saying that out loud for the first feels strange in this journey. But I have a feeling I am not the only one who has ever wrestled with that.
