Like slowly building pressure in the water pipes of an old unmaintained building I can feel it. It’s not a new feeling, but the intensity and depth is unique. I used to be able to handle things, I faced the world like a lone warrior on the battlefield. A sword in one handle, a shield in another. The surging enemy in front of me would buffet but not break me. Their attacks would sting, my heart would burn and my chest would ache, but I’d raise my head for one more fight. Gallantly drawing strength from my solitude independence.
It’s not like that anymore. I break down. I stumble. Tears flow from my eyes even when they shouldn’t. I need. Someone else to talk with, to share, to open up to. A strong word or inconsiderate gesture can knock me to my knees and send me seeking a place where I can curl up and cry.
I get overwhelmed.
It’s not the transition – though surely this plays it’s part. It’s just how I am. Who I am. After all these years pretending I could do it on my own. Pretending that it didn’t hurt. I can’t. And it does. In that realization is a beautiful freedom. The authentic cry from my soul is not always joyful, but it is sincere.
So with weary limbs and a tired heart I stand astride my hilltop, looking out over the valley of my life and proclaim, ‘I’m finally me. I’m woman.’ Thought the journey has at times left me overwhelmed, the depth of my personal resonance has carved it’s own small yet distinguishable mark on the world.
Even though tears I cannot understand, the music of my being sings in tune.
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