The tears well up in my eyes before I even know what’s happening; the lump in my throat tightens and travels to my chest.
“Don’t lose it, not here, not right now…” an unspoken message, a muscle memory of what is allowed and what is not allowed here.

The tears come anyway. My body no longer cares for what is allowed and what is not. It only cares about what is. What is…is that I’m sad as hell, and it’s blindsided me.

What is…is that I’m scared and feel very alone. What is…is that I’m not holding it together very well. What is…is that my panic response has been activated and it’s on its own program now.

What is…is that I know my own resiliency. What is…is that I trust the wheel of time and the turning of the Earth and the changing of the seasons and what feels like a shitshow is really parts of my life rearranging themselves to be more in alignment with my heart and my soul. And I have feelings about that.

What is…is grief.
My baby getting older
my body feeling tired
old dreams dying away to make space for the new ones
my inner little girl who is terrified of what she might become and how she might screw up
feeling abandoned and lonely and overwhelmed

I sit in the muck of these pieces of life rearranging itself. I sink in, deeper.
I sink past the old muscle memory of resistance, judgment, fear.
Down I go,
down to the heavy sensation of acceptance.

Here I am, in the muck, I am becoming it, my muscles turning into thick mush, my bones feeling soft and wobbly, my heart dissolving into cool damp gooey release.

I give myself permission to sink here. To rest in grief and loneliness and the fear of the unknown.

Below the whispers of “keep it together” lies the real truth:

“you have permission to be a shitshow.”

Shit grows the most beautiful gardens.