Blessings & the barren places: What I know of letting go.

I just discovered your blog like a week ago, I couldn't even tell you how it happened, but I definitely needed it. You probably get a million of these emails all the time, but I am writing you because I am just in the worst place right now. I feel like I have the world's hugest broken heart, and I'm constantly fighting it, day after day.

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I want to say I didn't miss the bells.

But there is something about this time of the year. How furious it seems to bustle in and out. How it breathes & quickens & tears like wrapping paper off the sides of us. How we always say “I’ll be ready for it this year, I’ll be ready for it this year.” How we are never fully ready or maybe we’re not even sure what to be ready for. Would we even know slowness if it filled our lungs?

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I'm not gonna tell you that you're beautiful.

Beautiful was a word that I’d heard so many times-- flung from girl to girl in some shallow exchange of words that was rarely ever meant-- that it lost all meaning to me. Beautiful is a bound-up, broken word in a culture that matches it against thigh sizes and blemish-free skin.

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There will be no rose ceremony tonight.

I might be the ogre of singledom. I might be the girl who owns the #foreveralone hash tag and gets it screen printed on tees to sell in the heart of New York City. I might never get the rose from another guy for as long as it takes for you to get here. I. Don’t. Care. Because if and when I find you, that is it.

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