surviving.

I’ve been sitting on this for a week because I’ve struggled to find the right things to say. Whether it is within my own trauma or the things that have been passed down to me, survivorship has always been a part of my identity regardless of whether I choose to embrace it. For as long as I can remember, I was always surviving. I have internalized a lot perhaps of not doing what we ought to do, and instead pursuing the things we need to do, in order to last, and get to the other side.

I am grateful for the resilience, and for the constant guidance of the One that covers my dark and hurt filled spaces. My heart has grown to find its solace in His rest amid the wrestle of the dark and hurt filled spaces. With the isolation breeding indifference and racial hatred, I find myself struggling to speak of the internalizations we each carry and force ourselves to endure in order to survive. My heart has grown numb, weary, tired, and impatient. Things I promised myself I would never let myself intentionally feel, I find myself fighting to defend against.

While the focus has always been to tend to the spaces of grief and hurt and point them towards the place of solace, I will be the first to admit, that my silence has been because I have run out of things to say. There comes a point where opinion matters less than the continual courage to show up, and be brave amid the storm, to reflect light standing, amid an ever turbulent sea. There comes a point, where the light that has endured, begins to flicker and dim, because it has run through its life course.

The brain, in the beauty of its complexity, learns to shut itself down, to protect our very broken spaces, that we have barely had the opportunity to regenerate itself back to health. I find myself fighting this more and more, with each passing day, the courage to not choose to tune everything out in order to keep my peace. With each passing moment, where joy and grief become more interlined, and nuanced, everything is starting to breathe its various colours of grey. I find myself growing tired of holding my own opinions and thoughts on the subject, and whatever energy I have left, is left to hold whatever remains that hasn’t already been surrendered.

Our stories have taught us to survive and endure a world that is harsh and unforgiving. But with much of that reality now is framed under spotlight, how much more is enough when the limit to our surviving becomes more that just an endurance to the other side; that it is to say, I am also here, please see me. How much more can a hurt heart in grief continue to stay soft and tender, amid a calling to love, and continually stay in love.