My heart got used to a slow pace. It got used to the routine and comfort of being still. It was nice for a while, to be safe from all things new and bold. But the heart isn’t meant to be still; it is meant for grander things. It is meant for adventure, for the successes and failures you only get from trying.
I had to teach myself how to be brave again. I forgot how equally exciting and terrifying it really is. I forgot about the butterflies in your stomach when you talk to someone new. I forgot how overwhelming it could be to learn new facts and stories, allowing space for another person’s life to take place. I forgot how alarming it can feel to unlearn a little of who you are to allow a possibility of who you could become.
This is starting over.
It’s late night talks and anxious mornings overanalyzing what was said. It’s carving out weekends together and unconsciously relying on them. It’s telling him something vulnerable and hoping he won’t judge you for it. It’s listening to something vulnerable and not judging either.
It’s learning the birthmark on his ear and slowly all his fears. It’s allowing yourself to be known and letting him see your tears. I tried my hardest to hold close to caution and realized that all of this is a risk. That a heart cannot be protected once it has agreed to try. It is now allowed to bend and break, but also swell in joy, and my caution is only a meager barrier to whatever happens next.
But in a short span of time, I realized this is why we try. That my heart is finally beating again to the pace it was designed for. That living allows the weekends to fly, independent of how we measure time. That my smiles could collect rooms, and my heart can make room. I have no way to ensure the future, but the future isn’t stagnant either. That in place of comfort I traded excitement and in place of nothing I found this. And this is worth trying again.