There was a time when my story was of being the other.
That was my story.
It was woven through my world.
I remember moments, walking through my life, feeling invisible.
Playing my part.
Heart tucked away.
I ached and didn’t quite know why.
It’s a story I carried tightly.
One I thought was the truth.
Because I had proof.
I had feelings.
I knew what was up.
I remember the first moment of clarity.
That maybe it all wasn’t as real as I thought.
Back in grad school for a workshop.
Years after graduation.
I was standing outside…not knowing anyone.
Watching everyone chirping and bubbling in their little groups.
And I sat.
Something I had done a million times.
This time, no ache.
Love at all the love that was flowing out.
I was comfortable.
I was home.
The story of otherness and separation is one I have worked diligently to dismantle.
To step out of.
From the roots.
So that I can see the wide open truth.
Well worth the tears, I promise you.
And today, I stepped on the the dance floor, ready to shake up my world.
My foot had other ideas.
It ached and the the only YES there was called me to sit down.
So I did.
I danced in place.
Watching amazing people twirl by.
I could not help but marvel at the spaciousness that was present.
Once upon a time, this would have triggered me something awful.
I would have spun a tale that would have crowded my vision…
showing me only a world of where I was on the outside.
But those lenses are gone.
And as I marveled in my love, the world rose up to meet me.
I was not alone.
I was met.
All from the inside out.
All while sitting on the floor.
I share all this to say…
none of our stories are true.
No matter how hard we believe them.
No matter how sticky close they seem.
Who we are is so much grander than we could ever think.
Real life lives beyond the stories.
Let’s see what happens when we are willing to adventure there.