I sometimes have the feeling that I can’t recognize myself.

When I look into the mirror and the image reflected back at

me all of a sudden seems unfamiliar.

And then I actually feel.

The coarseness in my hands and

the expanse of my hips. It’s like I’ve gone from child to

adult in nothing more than a few seconds.

Like there’s been a lapse in the universe and

the old me was plucked out and replaced with this one.

But then I remember the un-phenomenon

called growth. And there wasn’t a lapse

–no, now I remember–

there were moments that demanded I stretch



Yet somehow the fact that I’ve changed is only important if I notice it.

I can go through weeks months years decades

just being and not knowing.

I hope, as I learn to notice, that I appreciate every

wrinkle on my soul as I do each one on my skin.

That I lovingly glide my fingers over the

crevices and nooks in my epidermis, just manifestations of the growing

wrinkles conspicuously hidden in my brain. Old age is a sign of wisdom-

I won’t hurry to smoothen them out.

I no longer fear it.

I no longer fear the old or the new.

New things to try and new things to learn.

To ask about experiences I never had in an effort to

understand diversity better. I’ve learned that the only one

holding me back from connecting to others, to being a blessing,

is a little ball of uncertainty called Me.

Me would spend more time mulling over

13 reasons why particular ideas could never

work instead of finding solutions for them.

Me refused to exercise kindness on herself by

saying no when she needed time to grow



I refuse to be my own bully. I choose to believe that

God has implanted gifts in me and I choose to act on them.

I choose to love my wrinkles. I spend more time

intentionally building myself and others up for the future

and for the now.

The worst outcome is that I get a particular idea wrong.

The best outcome?

Well, I imagine it’ll be unimaginable.

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