Heartache hit me hard today, but this time I swore I was going to work through it—transform it. Love it. I pledged to myself that this pain would not stop me from moving forward or feeling okay.

I decided that even though another person had not held my pain the way I had wanted them to, nor had they connected to the raw and tender places inside me, I would learn to do this for myself and with myself.

I would take on the job of holding my own heart, and eventually I would do it expertly, intuitively, automatically, with two skilled hands and one clear and conscious soul.

After all, others can only love us so much, even when we have wished on a thousand shooting stars they could do it more. They have their missions to unfold. And we—we have our own.

Eventually, we learn that expecting someone else to take away our pain only causes more.

So this morning, I took my heart and its aching, and I kept it to myself. I didn’t lash out or blame. Instead, I unwrapped it slowly. I chose to own the responsibility I had previously placed on another.

Gently, tenderly, I stopped to caress her (my heart), as if she were the delicate petal I had just plucked from the hedge outside my home, as if she were those satin-fleshed white roses lining my street.

And she ached. Oh, she throbbed and wracked out sobs and sorrows too.

I brought her to my lips, and brushed the softness, the rawness of her across them.

“Heart of my heart,” I whispered, “I will learn to hold you.”

With her fragrance upon me, I took a moment to breathe my heartache in—all the softness and the beauty of it.

“Your tenderness, my heart, I will enfold with care.”

In the craft of becoming, we learn to take in rather then push away. We absorb so that we can then transform. We create.

Tenderly, I loved every tear that dripped out of her. This was her, fully alive. Fully broken. Grief had laid its head inside her a long time ago; there it had stored memories and moments that she now needed to release.

With intention and purpose, I was here to do this—with her, for her—to be her channel for letting go.

A new title was unraveling: “healer of my own heart.”

Knowing this, my heart beckoned me on to better understand the skill of soothing self. Her pulse reminded me that the journey of uncovering, releasing and clearing was still taking place.

“Heart of my heart, I will hold you,” I repeated.

Mystics whispered of grand unions, lovers, passionate nights and bliss-laden days, and we thought they were talking about the experience we would have with another.

Oh, how we were mistaken.

They were trying to tell us of the union that was possible within our own self.

The decision to become the great love of our life is the journey back home.

So I come back—back to the feeling inside, to the rose petal I picked off my hedge this morning, to my feet walking slowly now beside a quiet sea, and to the softness I find within my own chest.

This time, I hold it all to my cheek, and I attempt to be my own sturdy companion.

I wanted to be ferocious with the world for not taking better care of me—better care of this heart—but there was a lesson sorely missing:

How to take care of it myself.

She reminded me today that I could do this better, so I learn the art of loving, starting with this weeping heart right here.

Some days I will take baby steps to get to her, and other days I will take giant leaps and bounds.

But I am determined: before I leave this earth, I will know how to hold my heart.

So I stand with heart in hand, now comprehending her as the manifestation of every one of my desires. I look down at her, and I choose to adore, rather than shut my eyes.

I decide to love the aching places.

I kiss the throbbing spots.

I caress the rawness—that courage to feel all she ever wanted and more.

To hold my heart, I eliminate the divide in me. I sing sweetly to her and remind her she is mine. Like my favorite lover, we entwine perfectly together.

I place her back inside of me and I rock her to let her know this is home.

This heart is my responsibility, as this life is my own.

The softness of a rose petal lingers on my lips—and its fragrance too.

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Author: Sarah Norrad

Image: Pexels; Daniela Brown/Flickr

Editor: Toby Israel

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