Home, Flowing Freely With The Cadence of Your Soul’s Internal Drumming
My stomach begins to churn, the natural cadence of my breathing becomes restricted, and my emotions take control; akin to the spin cycle of a washing machine, fear and anxiety well up within the soul of my inner child. It’s a familiar unsafe feeling, always lying below the surface of my authenticity, whispering to me how unworthy and unloved I am, and again fear wins, and the joy of my truth is silenced.
In the same way, I endured the stings of the infamous brown leather belt repeatedly striking my almond joy chocolate skin, robbing me of my innocence and leaving me to bear the weight and responsibility of my mother’s anger.
Her anger was an impactful manifestation of physical combustion, defending the refusal to acknowledge the piercing mental daggers of a psychological imbalance that didn’t belong to me. Most children receive warm, loving feelings of encouragement to curiously explore and create a fresh narrative via the World around them, yet the bright red blisters of pain that developed across my prepubescent body following my mother’s uncontrollable bouts of rage told a different story.
The tastebuds along my tongue learned to discern the salt of my tears. My brain whirred away, processing and making the connection; this is what pain tastes like, and love tastes like pain. The love I tasted equated to being beaten down and stripped of my joy, innocence, and curiosity; it was a prison that suffocated me, leaving me broken-spirited and depleted of what was my birthright. That little girl who became a shell of what she was born to be, grieving and disappointed, picked up her fork and ate a plate full of lies; she was forced to chew and swallow the untruths that were never hers to digest. The binding discomfort of being silenced grew roots like an oak tree keeping the secrets of generational abuse to maintain a false ideal of peace in what was initially engrained into her psyche as home.
I let go, pivot, and take hold of the revelation of truth. My mother’s pain and anger were never my crosses to bear; I exhale a fierce warmth that exudes the very definition of home. Home is the fiery lava that explodes from the volcano, spiritually freeing my ancestors from the heavy chains of chattel slavery that tipped the first domino leading to generations of picking up the fork to eat, chew, and swallow the untruths, disappointments, and unworthiness that burned and disfigured their flesh as they were gas lit into indisputable acceptance. I leave behind the ashes of a cycle of generational trauma and boldly and courageously step into the power that is home. Home ignites and fuels the energetic alignment of divine passion. Home is Harriet Tubman journeying the Underground Railroad, and it’s the interconnection of escaping the dark dead-end of wearing others’ shame, guilt, fear, and self-imposed limitations while boldly attaining what’s been my birthright all along. Home, it rightfully belongs to me!
I deserve what should have never been accessible and stolen by the negligence of those who were supposed to love and protect me. So I’m speaking up, speaking out, and flipping the proverbial table on the deceptions and untruths forced upon my inner child. I’m reclaiming my power, which was never anyone’s right to diminish. Home is power! The power and freedom to dive deep into the depths of the waves of my unique internal drumming. What is the cadence beneath the surface? Rhythms. Rhythms that can’t be faked or forged; they’re natural and eternal. They are home.
