Digest

Ms. Melina

Idigest what vulnerability tastes like.

It tastes like a place where solace is slipping away.

A place where discovering reasons boils your entire body.

A place without sidewalks to step on. A place where your soul is stripped down and exposed.

A place where faith is diminished. A place where uncertainty revokes deep-rooted fear of rejection.

A place where you’re gasping for air yet your lungs are unable to take it all.

Those exhales and inhales would be taken away from you. Someday. Somehow. Somewhere and when. Uncertainty.

“Are you scared?” she whispered.

“Sometimes,” I observe my plate to avoid eye contact.

“Why?” her eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.

“I do not like this place. It makes my heart ache,” I inhale 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… and exhale 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…

“I understand. I do not like it either,” she shrugged.

I know she is one brave little girl. Curly and the darkest brown hair that could ever be. She rarely endures compliments, yet she often grants them. Her wound taught her to smile. Her scars are a badge of honor.

Her pain constructs her backbone of life. Her tears are a river of victory. Her soul is mended.

“I have to eat these… you know, to survive,” she munched down a big spoon of defenseless. I’ve tasted that. The congested thought of being exposed lingers. I adjusted my seat again to gain strength as those thousand inhales and exhales could not ease me.

“Is there something I could do?” I pointed to the burden on her shoulders with my chin. She is now chewing rejection. It took some time for her to chew as there were a lot of nonacceptances stuck in her mouth. I am familiar with that.

“Just don’t ever take it personally,” she gulped down a sip of security. “You did your best. That’s what I like about you.”

I observe her face. Lighthearted. Weary. Fortitudinous.

“I don’t think I am that kind of person,” I put a spoonful of humiliation in my mouth. I taste sweet and sour slightly with a pack of bitterness in the middle. I look at my half glass of esteem, wondering if I should drink it now but I am not triggered. “What makes you plucky?”

“I want to be like you,” she cuts a piece of reassurance and spreads it on consolation skin. “Try this,” she added. I grabbed the spoon from her hand and without any hesitation I devoured it.

“Do you like it?” she smiled and handed me an encouragement napkin to clean up the resentment.

“I do,” there is a mix of abundance and gratitude in my mouth. It is soothing.

“There is more,” she pointed to the bowl of vulnerability on the dining table.

“I don’t think I could handle that,” I shook my head.

“I think you could. I believe in you,” she nodded.

I am petrified. I decided to stand up and walked closer to her. Her body is so small, how could she take all of these?

“Because I believe in you. I believe in who I want to become,” she looked up at me. I hugged her. I hugged her so tight my hands hurt. She did not let go. I’m sure she enjoyed it as well.

I squatted down to be at her eye level, “Thank you for always believing in me.”

“You already know what you want to do yet you are looking for validation from others,” she lifted her hands and put her palms on my shoulders. “You are here to do what has never been done. So never run from the power you have to make leaps and bounds. Nobody can live your life for you,”

She moved from the chair and stood in front of me, “The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet. I believe in the person I want to become and I want to be you. I am proud of you.”

At that moment, I realized that my healing requires me to release and redefine what love is and what is expected of me to receive it. I have to digest vulnerability to keep on going. I have to devour pain to grow stronger. To survive.

To suffer is to heal and healing is a quiet homecoming. It is about returning to myself and settling peacefully into the truth of who I am. I am neither incomplete nor broken. I am whole, loveable, human.

Because those exhales and inhales would be taken away from you. Someday. Somehow. Somewhere and when. Uncertainty.