The art of moving forward

I wish I could say it is a beautiful, graceful, elegant dance. With me, executing each step precisely and correctly. Hitting the mark with each turn, each twirl, each jump.

A show everyone would want to watch. Maybe even a few would brave the dance themselves.

But the truth is moving forward looks a lot like the clumsy girl who still walks into door frames, hits her head when getting into the car, tripping over her own feet, with bruises visible and invisible to the naked eye.

Not pretty. Not elegant. Not choreographed.

Moving forward looks different for everyone. Each of us with a story all our own.

Yet how does one begin? What is the first step?

Those first weeks all I could do was cry. Movements slow and heavy.

Grief clouding my brain.

For an instant or two, the sun shined with clarity. Giving me a chance to make brief plans.

Moments when I was so small at the bottom of the mountain. Wondering how the hell I find the strength to take the first step. Some how I did. Making the move forward.

I had periods where I was standing still. Because any action was too painful.

To breathe. To process. To understand.

So I didn’t.

I was pushed back.

Back down. Back to that day. Back to anger. Back to depression.

Multiple times. More than I can count.

I began on a path that I believed would lead me to full healing. Not knowing about the dead ends, crossroads, or sharp turns. Looking up, the climb seemed short. However, I could not see the huge valleys, flat plains, and rocky terrain scattered about the mountain.

I underestimated.

Everything.

Length of time. Grief. Complex emotions. Strength. Courage. Humility. Pain. Forgiveness.

I have made so many mistakes. God awful, embarrassing ones. Desperate actions in search of acceptance and love. Haughty mindsets of I am better and free of fault. Pushing myself so hard to show everyone, but especially them and myself, I am moving forward. Drowning sorrows in drunkenness, false attention, and self pity.

Moments I would be glad if they never existed. My journey would seem more appealing to outsiders looking in. Yes I am not able to shrug off judgement as easily as I would like.

Maybe the imperfections in the art is what makes it unique. For no portrait can be the same. No song sang exact twice.

Every step taken.

Tiny. Large. Forward. Backward. Stupid. Smart. Impulsive. Thought out. Practical. Extravagant. Easy. Hard.

Is a step.

Towards healing.

Towards light.

Towards peace.

As long as I keep getting back up. No matter the length of time I am down.

As long as I take my foot and place it in front of where I was.

As long as when I look back, in yearning, in reflection, in wonderment, I always turn to face forward.

As long as I embrace, my mistakes and the forks in the road, while adapting my stride and speed.

As long as I never give up.

 


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