I look back and think of all the times I thought “that’s it.”

Nothing can break me, weaken me, or deplete me.

I think of all the times when I thought healing was linear. I mostly crack up at the thought of believing that I knew it all; that there was nothing more for me to learn.

I remember the times I stood at my mirror, weeping, threatening myself not to cry ever again. Or the nights I tried to calm my anxious mind because, hey, there’s no room for anxiety when you’ve done all the necessary inner work.

And ah, the self-talks. How much I have beaten myself up for not feeling enough—unworthy, imperfect. How deeply I have loathed myself for repeating the same, silly mistakes over and over again.

The self-punishments were the worst of all. I tried hard to build a wall between myself and my vulnerability. I cut myself off from my emotions, and put on the fearless, potent mask.

But this is not how healing is supposed to be.

What may have worked for others, sure is not working for me. I can’t heal without being the most authentic version of myself.

I can’t heal if I think that “healing” is supposed to be flawless.

I’m not a finished project. I’m not a painting on a wall or a dusty book on a shelf.

I’m a work in progress. 

I want to visualize the future and accept that this is not freakin’ it. There’s much more to come that might break or deplete me, and that’s the only way I can live and feel fully.

Healing is not linear. Standing at my mirror and weeping is the most genuine act, and I’m not ashamed to shed a few tears that translate my deepest sentiments every now and then.

I’m not ashamed to travel back to the past, or to lose myself in the hopes of the future.

May my mind always be anxious, and may I always learn how to deal with it. I’m not creating positive thoughts, nor keeping away negative ones. I will examine my thoughts as they come my way.

I’m not sure if I’ll meditate today, read a good old book, or stare at the ceiling doing absolutely nothing.

I may be unworthy today, and may feel imperfect tomorrow. I could repeat the same mistake again 20 years from now, and fall into the same old traps that broke me in the past. I’m not a machine—that, I know.

And who am I without my emotions? Strip me of my temporary anger, my silly overthinking, my once-in-a-year misjudgments, and I’m only a shallow, walking piece of flesh.

Healing is about hurting, loving, falling, getting up, then falling again, and getting up whenever I’m ready.

I want to keep learning and failing. I want to feel beautiful today and ugly as f*ck tomorrow. I’m an imperfect mess who might never become whole, but who will surely grow and improve every step of the way.

Most of all, I’m taking my time. We don’t all move at the same pace. I’m moving at mine knowing that I might stop, go two steps back, or even get more ahead.

I trust that my expectations of who I should or could be do me harm more than good.

I want to be a line of poetry that forever needs amendments. I know it might be tiring, but it’s surely worth it.

I might sleep with a relaxed mindset or a chattering mind. I could wake up crazily in love with myself, or spend my day feeling inadequate.

Regardless of how I wake up, sleep, live, or think, I won’t accept being less than a work in progress.

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