There is something that I have to admit. I’ve got a girl crush.
She’s been on my mind a lot lately. I’ve been wondering about her. I’ve been coloring the shades of her personality and delving into a trove of her most intimate thoughts. Sometimes I wonder, does she see all that she was, is, and can be? Does she realize how much she impacts those who know her , including me?
Does she know that her eyes are two radiant drops of dark amber? That her bronze complexion glows like a trophy under the Tennessee sun? Or that the sweet words that drip from her lips are as soothing as wild honey? The way that her round hips sway from side to side is poetic; there’s a rhyme scheme to the way that she moves. I see how she dresses up her sultry pout with vampy shades of lipstick. But little does she know, that her innocent, toothy smile outshines the glossiest of makeup. I love the tinges of mahogany that streak her chestnut hair, it’s beautiful. Her hair, even when she hasn’t washed it in a while, and she slicks the greasy tresses into a messy bun, is still beautiful. Her mane, in it’s thick and wild-textured glory, is still beautiful. She doesn’t need to straighten it for anybody.
I am in awe with the way that this woman models grace and sheer tenacity in the midst of turbulent storms. I love how she’s used rock bottom to architect a foundation of rock-solid character; she is down-to-earth. This girl doesn’t own a lot of shoes, but she places her feet in the shoes of others. This girl doesn’t have a huge wardrobe, but she cloaks herself in unbridled compassion. I wish that she valued this part of herself more.
Her family and friends occupy a warm place in her heart; she has a penchant for wearing her heart on her sleeve. The collection of ‘isms’ that shape her personality are quite endearing. Like the way her face lights up when she lights a dessert-scented candle, or the way her eyes set ablaze with joy when she’s joking around with a dear friend. Or even her weird affinity for fleeky eyebrows, conspiracy theories, and Bahamian KFC. She loves to play host, with a cozy blanket, a hot cup of tea, and a home-cooked meal in tow. She loves to think and ponder about topics like the breadth of God’s grace, what her future holds, and the lessons from her past; her mind is a maelstrom of thoughts and questions.
This woman, like many other young women, is a lavender soul with violet sensibilities. Although her spirit is steeped in softness and vulnerability, she has an intelligence and a mental fortitude that is undefeated. Yet, despite this, I look into her eyes and I see the sadness that afflicts her, it lulls me deeper and deeper into the universe of emotion that envelops her. She is hard on herself. She questions her impact. She compares herself to other women and it robs her of her joy and contentment. When the pangs of self-doubt creep in, she second-guesses her success. She even second-guesses her intuition. Why does she hurt herself like this?
Doesn’t she know that she is more powerful than her greatest fear? Doesn’t she know that her uniqueness is her greatest weapon?
I wish she knew how much she mattered. I wish that she could grasp the weight of her impact. I wish she knew that her worth is not measured solely by what she can do for others. I wish she knew that I love her.
I wish she could see –
I wish she knew all that she was, is, and can be.
Perhaps, I should remind her.
Her name is Gabrielle. Her name is me.