Break

I have a mountain of admin to sort through at the moment, the type of admin I feel we really should be warned abut before signing up for adulthood. Somewhere along the way, while looking for a document (which, by the way, I have yet to find), I stumbled across this piece I wrote almost 4 years ago. The events and circumstances I describe in it may have changed, but the message still rings true:

Relief.

That’s what tears taste like today. Relief.

Okay, let me backtrack. This has been a week where I’ve been so acutely aware of everything I am bad at, everything I do wrong and all the things I let fall by the wayside.

I’m not exercising enough. I don’t call my grandma often enough. My romantic life, or lack thereof, is laughable. Seriously, there is some great material for a romantic comedy here. With the emphasis on comedy and the “romantic” referring to my current relationship with my bed.

I’m also in the process of doing my Master’s degree, which is awesome because I’m a total nerd (owning it); but it’s also scary. I’m scared witless of failing at this because I truly care about it. I’m scared because there have been so many things I’ve tried to control or succeed at that only ended up broken.

So, the tears come into play here: I received feedback from my supervisor. Good feedback, with kind words. That’s all. I bawled like a baby (while in my pink pyjamas in my beloved bed – don’t judge me, I have the flu so a pyjama day is allowed). I cried and cried and cried because I was so relieved that this wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t broken.

I guess that’s what today was all about, me realising that I’m not broken. Even if the feedback was horrible, even if all my work had to be started over and had come undone –  I’m not broken beyond repair. Yes, I feel broken and in many areas of my life I’m not functioning the way I want. That doesn’t mean I’m useless. It doesn’t mean that my heart is any less valuable. A broken heart still beats within my chest, and although I’m convinced that sometimes there’s an unsteady staccato where the reassuring heartbeat should be, it’s still there. I’m still here.

So maybe, just maybe, I should be redefining my view of the word “broken”?

Broken means I’m trying.

Broken means I’m brave.

Broken means I’m being vulnerable and open.

Broken means I’m present and aware.

Broken does not give me permission to lash out, but it does give me permission to ask for help.

Broken does not mean I’m allowed to be bitter, it does mean that I can say “This hurts.”

Broken does not mean I have no value, it means I’m going through a period of refinement.

There is beauty in broken, because there is hope for restoration and new beginnings.

And in admitting that something is broken, there is relief. I’m not holding it all together by myself, trying to keep the pieces from falling on the ground. I can let them fall and shatter even more. In doing this, I can pick up the pieces and sift through them. Keep what I want, hold on to the things that are good for me. Discard the things that are of no use. The shattered pieces I choose to keep – those are the pieces I can use for my mosaic. The others I can acknowledge and let go. Breathe in, breathe out. Broken is  hard place to be, but it is a good place to be.