Proud of myself for asking my partner to hide temptation. Proud that I spoke up with love and that I quieted the pain of shame by using my voice.
Proud that I am sticking to integrity and that amidst chaos and loud sounds, I’m able to quiet in order to hear my thoughts and separate the ones that don’t serve me. Proud that I do want to move through it, and sometimes it can only be as a bystander, but that I am choosing to go into it, deliberately and intentionally.
Proud that I am being vulnerable even if it’s scary, lonely and awkward for others. Proud that I’m sharing and not running away. Proud that I got up early to do something positive with my breath and that was priority. Proud that I want a healthy and courageous life. Proud that I want the most strong, honest and authentic communication with myself and God. Proud that I am everything. And when I accept everything, I can be in healing.
Proud that my body is 20lbs lighter than it was 2 years ago, but also has the capacity to hold 20 more lbs or even 60 more lbs if I choose to birth life.
Proud that my hair has been thinning since my early 20’s and that I have learned the importance of covering my head in direct sunlight. Proud that I take so much care of the blessing of hair I have, and that I never take it for granted and do my best to forgive bald spots.
Proud that I gave up running because I had an injury and it was making it worse. Proud that I gave that permission to myself and found other athletic outlets or say ok to a slow walk.
Proud that I was vulnerable and spoke up and told you my truths, even if you and I don’t understand them.
Proud of the grit I’ve cooked up facing thick molasses like uncertainty. And proud of failing constantly at big endeavors because success I hear is just mathematical. It’s not a human thing.
Proud of naming and claiming shame, because it also so badly wants to be heard and cared for.
Proud of the willingness to say hello, even when goodbye feels more comfortable and automatic.
Proud of getting out of the house.
Proud of waking up.
Proud of slowly, slowly, gently, and even slower than seems possible, accepting what stillness I can find.
Again, so unbridledly proud of the slow movements. The slowest of movements. Of the slow ones that let the breath be felt, especially the ones so slow that breath feels like a rumble.
I am proud of my depression. Because it’s not mine and it’s not me. But it’s a part of everything. And I’m just proud that I am everything.