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It’s easy to sit behind my computer screen and type with fiery fingers—about living boldly and speaking boldly and being a bada$$ woman.

It’s tempting to craft a 2-D identity of who I wish I was, rather than be honest about the 3-D reality of who I actually am.

But, I want to be honest.

I need to be honest.

Because I am human. I am imperfect. That’s what I want to share the most.

Still, it’s so damn seductive to scrawl out all the “right” words and make ’em shiny and pretty and sound oh-so-succulent.

It’s enticing to paint myself into tiny corners of perfection and share only the lovely little sentences that aren’t raw. The ones that don’t hurt like hell to write and share. The ones that won’t offend or piss people off or shake up the world.

Because then maybe you’ll like me. You’ll think I have the answers.

But, I don’t have the answers.

And you know what?

I don’t want ’em.

I want questions and uncertainty and raw scraps of throbbing vulnerability.

I want truth.

And the truth is unmistakable: I am human. I am imperfect.

We all are.

We struggle. We stumble. We succeed. We love. We cry. We hurt. We f*ck up. We tremble. We prevail.

We’re all confused, joyous, messy human f*cking beings.

Why not be proud of it—all of it?

I don’t know about you, but this armor I’ve been wearing is exhausting. Piece by piece, my mask comes off and disintegrates into the dirt—-and yes, it feels empowering—but mostly, it feels raw.

Shaky as hell.

It’s surprising, because this power ain’t nothin’ more than good old fashioned vulnerability—and vulnerability is what I’ve been hiding from all along. I mean, sh*t, I’d hate to bare it all and admit how much time I spend brooding at my desk, staring out the window with tear-filled eyes, uncertain of myself, hating my words, unsure if I matter at all.

But that’s the truth. In it, there’s freedom.

Because we all have feelings of self-doubt and uncertainty.

So why not talk about them?

Why not be brutally, beautifully honest?

Once the truth is exposed, transformation happens. Love happens. The second we peel away our stubborn walls, we let life in. We connect to other souls, deeply, profoundly, deliciously.

Sometimes we really need that.

Right now, I want to get naked with these words and find juiciness in the moments where I hide from life. I want to find love in the moments where I hide from myself.

So here I go.

The truth is, I’m scared sh*tless.

I hate speaking up—I worry that I’ll sound like a needy b*tch.

I panic in crowded places.

Every time I walk into the supermarket, the harsh glow of fluorescent lighting makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I doubt myself a lot. A lot.

I’m worried that this article is complete crap.

I refuse to drive on interstate highways because I find them overwhelming and scary.

I fear that I were to be myself—to really be myself—I would be rejected, instantly.

I am terrified of getting close to anyone because I’ve been walked on, put down, used and criticized many times.

I am human. I am imperfect.

I have gashes on my soul and bruises on my heart. I have burns and blemishes on my skin.

Both painful and beautiful memories blow through the breezes of my mind, like old sepia-colored scarves.

But I am here. I am alive.

I am a human f*cking being, just like you.

What’s your truth?

How are you—really?

What keeps you up at night, breathless and worried?

Dive in.

Speak it out.

It’s all stunningly beautiful, because it’s truth.

Truth is all we have.

Those pulsating scraps of raw nakedness, swirling around inside us, are the only things we can count on.

Once we reveal ourselves, once we unveil who we really are, how we really feel, the universe opens its arms to us.

Because in that moment, we open our arms to ourselves.

We embrace ourselves.

We see that we don’t have to be perfect to share our gifts with the world.

We see that we don’t have to be flawless to be worthy.

We see that we are whole, just as we are.

Because we are human.

We are imperfect.

And it is enough.

It is so f*cking beautiful.

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Relephant:

Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: courtesy of the author