“There is such depth to listening, and an exchange, like an echo from inside a canyon, when friends have listened to me at my hopeless. They heard. Someone heard, heard what was happening, what was true and painful, when the center would not hold. They sat, listened, and breathed with me, like doulas.”
The last 3 years have been a hashing and rehashing of events. My small circle of friends have listened to me tell the same stories, whisper the same fears, and cry the same tears over and over and over again. But they’re still there. They know I will get through this. They listen, empathize, coach, and cheer me on just like any good doula. Those same stories and conversations have allowed me to have epiphanies that I might not have had without rolling an idea around in my mind every which way with them.
I know it can be hard for them. I know it can be hard not to say, “yes, I’ve heard this story before…will you just fucking move on?” But they know, that’s not how I work. I’m a worrier, a planner, a “get it right or go home” kind of personality. I’ve been fighting the longest battle of my life, a battle that shouldn’t even be fought. I’m here, because of circumstances within my control and without.
Thank you for hearing my story (over and over). Thank you for believing me. Thank you for listening. Thank you for calling me out when I’m blaming myself too much. It’s a nasty habit that had years of practice for its claws to take hold.
When I turned my ear to the great below, I called for you as I was stuck on the hook. While my story is still emerging, your listening ears are guiding me to a place of healing, hope, and mercy.