It’s far too late for any brilliant thoughts but it has been too long since I wrote and my throat is tight like I might burst into tears at any second and so to avoid that travesty I may as well type.
My room here in Virginia is a hot mess of memorabilia from high school and the clothes I brought back from Ohio. There are two beds, one against a bookshelf and one against the windows. Every night the window-bed reminds me that I won’t share a room with anyone at school. I haven’t cried about that fact yet; maybe that’s what I’m holding at bay with this post?
It hit me on Thursday that I can officially call myself a writer, a conductor of information, a creator of paragraphs, a curator of words (okay, you get the picture). The thought skips across my mind and I am less terrified of that title than ever before. My inner tank of confidence is still low, and I’m still not sure what best helps it refill, but Jesus is kind and continues to perform miracles in my life.
I am not a vulnerable person, despite the brambly posts I have put on this blog. I don’t quite yet understand the proper balance between allowing those I love to love me and dropping unnecessary parts of myself onto their hearts. Any thoughts on this matter, you person who is reading and perhaps knows more from my typed words than whatever I’ve ever said aloud?
Yeah, I think it’s time for that cry.