I am struggling. I am struggling because there are so many moments I wonder, “Why is my body, my home, at war with me?”
There are mornings I wake up dreaming about my sweet, sweet memories, leading me to wonder why they are now just memories alone.
I hope that I was always meant to hold onto this faith in each step I take. And I’d like to think that it is always there and never leaves me, especially during times when my grasp on hope seems loose.
I have to have faith that things will get better, even in the clouds and dismay and wonder and questions… because all of this makes me dream of new hopes that bring life to a love that I have lost and found and lost and found again.
And now, after what seems like a lifetime veiling this story with a strength I trust can only come from grace, I am trying to honor it the only way I know how — through words and verse, patience and gentleness.
This year, winter seems new.
I say with honest certainty that writing has given me more than I have ever naturally been able to give to myself.