Either this freed me or I was already free. Breathe easy: pain will come. Let it pass over you like labour. What you are birthing is yourself, every last atom made new inside you. You will survive this.
For a while I left the door ajar for whatever would come in. But it seems that we're done with one another for a while, my pain and I. We're taking time apart. I move my fingers and my feet, and they do not feel like mine. I walk for miles, pound the treadmill in praise at the miracle of myself. I stand wrapped in my winter coat to watch lights move across the old city walls and gasp along with the children. Was the world always full of things like this?
I have arrived so late. I wish I had learned faster, lived braver. Maybe it takes even longer, for some, carrying their decades strewn with confusion and loss. Thirty years to see myself and like myself, most days.