sweet girl, let it out

You’re smiling, yes. Your house is beautiful, your hair is shiny, but you’re floundering. You’re holding onto the  fire–clutching it to your chest so the world can’t spot the smoke–watching it burn your flesh away.

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Dear strong, beautiful, pulled-together sister,

Looks like things are going well.

I saw your posts on Instagram. Your house looks beautiful.

Your kids are so smart!

Sounds like work is keeping you busy.

How are things going with that new guy?

Can we talk about what you’re using to make your hair so shiny?

No.

I see right through that half-assed grin you’ve got plastered on your face.

You’re falling apart. You’re trudging through.

 I’m just going through some shit.

It’s been a long week.

I haven’t been sleeping well.

The baby is teething.

The boyfriend is pissing me off.

Work is dragging me down.

That time of the month, you know!

No.

You are in it. You can’t touch the bottom and you lost sight of the top.

You’re smiling, yes. Your house is beautiful, your hair is shiny, but you’re floundering. You’re holding onto the fire–clutching it to your chest so the world can’t spot the smoke–watching it burn your flesh away.

You quickly turn the conversation around.

How was your vacation?

How’s your dad?

What’s next for work?

Are you hanging in there?

No. 

We don’t need to talk about me. And, really, we don’t need to about you.

But I need you to talk about you.

I know it’s easiest to hold what’s haunting you close and push everything else away, but I’m asking you to reconsider.

Sweet girl, let it out.

Open up the gates and let it pour.

Shout it from the rooftop.

Scream it into your pillow.

Wear out the pages of your journal.

Call your best friend.

Nuzzle into the nook of your partner.

Breath the heavy breaths.

Cry.

Sweat.

Clench your fists.

Yell until your throat is raw.

Say the words that sit on the tip of your tongue that you hold back with ropes and chains every damn day.

Of course, you’re scared. Of course, it hurts. Of course, it’s uncomfortable. It’s not pretty to sit in the mud with your pain–and it isn’t supposed to be.

Find your person, your place, your notebook–whatever it is you need– and pull the curtains on this bullshit show. Tell the truth. Get ugly. Drop your artillery, strip yourself naked.

Whatever it is you do, just please–let it out.


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