The bitter feeling of purpose

The message started with "Professor" and in short it was a call for help.

I don't remember going through a lot of questioning about being a lesbian when I was a teen.
But then I don't have many memory of that period. It's all a bit vague and fuzzy. In the middle of the fog there will sometimes be a startlingly precise snapshot of a moment. Some good, but not many.
I don't really know how I came to term with loving women. I thought I was bi for a while.
But I don't remember struggling much about it. I had other more pressing matters that kept me busy enough with dread and despair.
I am one of the lucky ones. Though my coming out wasn't the smoothest, it did not have any long lasting consequences. But I have read, and I have witnessed and I have listened.
So when this kid came out to me, so shy they barely said anything, I tried my best.
I tried to be supportive, and reassuring, and helpful.
But we haven't been at school in weeks, so I hadn't had news from them in weeks.
Until yesterday.
In the evening I got a message for an unknown handle on Discord.
But it started with "Professor" and in short was a call for help.
So I stopped everything I was doing and tried my best.

My teen years were, to put it mildly a long and terrifying trek through hell and school had been the source of a non negligible amount of my problems.
I have been told that I am good at my job, and I think this is why.
I never received any formation on how to teach or how to be a teacher. I learnt on the job.
But I remember being a student. and not a good one at that.
I remember the tiredness, the mood swings, the lack of motivation, the stress, the anxiety.
I remember questioning what I looked like, what I wore, what I said, who were my friends.
I remember wanting to do good but being unable to do anything.
I remember the night spent waiting for sleep, and I remember the nightmares.
I remember the pain from the pit that was gaping in my stomach while I tried not to be too much of a disappointment.
I remember other things that I don't care to put into writing. I am at peace with who I was and what I did but it doesn't mean that I like dwelling on it.

So when I look at my students, all I can think of is:
Dear God, don't let them trudge through hell alone like I did.
Let me make their day just a little bit more bearable. Just a little more interesting. Just a little bit less lonely.
Let me spare just one kid from the hell I lived.
This is why I love my job.
It's terribly paid, very frustrating, incredibly draining. It's stressful and though I easily work 50 hours a week I keep hearing that teachers are all lazy.
But it gives me a sense of purpose.

The message started with "Professor" and in short it was a call for help.
So I answered.
To the best of my abilities.
I said Your health and your safety are what's more important.
I said I am proud of you for looking for help. It isn't easy, but you did, and I am glad for that.
I said I know it is hard and you hurt, but you don't have to be alone. There are people here for you. And I'll be one of them if you need me.
I said I know feeling lost in your own body, in your own mind, in your own identity is terrible and it feels hopeless, but I promise it isn't. I promise you will find yourself and you will find balance and you will be happy in the end. Don't lose hope.

There was a call for help and I tried my best.
If I can make their life just a little less terrifying, then it will have been entirely worth it to keep going when I, so many years ago felt like giving up.

On staying home

Due to the spread of the Corona Virus, my school (and every school in the country) has been shut down until further notice.
This came as a shock to everybody, but I guess especially to me. I don't follow the news much so I didn't know how bad it was. I followed what was happening in Wuhan because of my friends there but otherwise, I rarely know what's happening in the country I live in.
It was eerie going to work on Friday, not knowing when I'll be back. I took everything I thought I would need to teach from home. I tried to prepare the students to the best of my abilities, to give them tips and ideas. And then the bell rang and I went home.
And now I am home.
My gym has closed, my dance classes have been cancelled so I have no reason to go out.
And... It's a relief.
I mean.... I kind of love my life at the moment.
I don't have to wake up at ungodly hours to commute, I can still teach and I finally have time to focus on the million of project that I never have time for.
Being forbidden from going outside has lifted the usual guilt I have when staying home.
The feeling that I should be doing something that matters. Seeing friends, exploring the world, making new experiences, making memories.
I am an introvert at heart, though I may be very out going for an introvert. Socializing is costly and usually born off a feeling of guilt and shame.
The lock down feels like a relief. A welcome moment out of time, a parenthesis where I can rest and grow.
Knit and sew and study. Maybe write. Maybe read.
And rest.
It feels like casting off a weight I didn't know I carried.

On unmatched love

I have come to realize that i love my best friend more than she loves me.
I think I have known for a long time.
I don't blame her. It's not something she does. I just think I give more value to our friendship than she does.
She has social anxiety so I have always been the one maintaining our relationship. She is not good at answering her phone and answering messages. I think she is sorry for it but unapologetic at the same time. "It's not because I have a phone that I have to be available all the time." and she is right about that. From our conversations on MSN to the pictures of cute bunnies I send her, I have always been the one initiating our conversations. It kind of hurts because I hate to beg for attention but hey, it's that or not having news for months in a row. So I try. I send her pins, messages, posts, texts, small reminders that I exist and I love her and I miss her always.
She has social anxiety and planning/organizing stuff exhausts her so she keeps that energy for those who she wouldn't see if she didn't make the effort. But since I make the effort, I guess she felt like she could rely on me to plan stuff.
But it means that more than once, I tried but she didn't meet me half way and screwed my evening, day, weekend.
She doesn't do it on purpose. she doesn't do it out of malice. I know that. But it hurts.
My mum once said that she is not a very good friend. And she took it very badly. She was hurt by the comment.
But I think my mother is right. She is a great person, but not a great friend. At least not to me.
Oh she loves me! She truly does.
But we both know that I shouldn't rely on her for any kind of emergency. Or book time for her before she actually confirms (which, since she doesn't communicate much makes it a tad difficult) and that even then there is a not-zero chance that she might not come.

I think I can safely say that she's always been a priority for me. Making sure that she is happy, that I see her, that she feels loved.
She is important to me. and I though that was enough.
I thought loving her was enough and that it didn't matter if she didn't love me as much or as well. That loving her was the point of friendship and that true friendship meant taking the extra step and meeting her where she was. Not asking from her anything more than what she would voluntarily give.
This is what a good person would say, would do, would feel.

The problem is that I am not exactly a good person.
I try to, but I am not.
I am possessive, constantly afraid of being forgotten and abandoned and to end up alone.
I am not jealous, but definitely envious.
I am probably much too self-centered and at least a bit egotistic. Selfish at heart, despite my best efforts in action.

And at the end of the day, I am not sure I am enough of a good person to be satisfied by loving her unconditionally.
I want to be loved unconditionally back. I want to be chose over. I want to be a priority. I want to get random marks of affection from the person I cherish the most.
And deep down it has made me miserable. I'm good enough at compartmentalizing that it is not an issue. but every once in a while there'd be something, a detail, a cancelled event, a message left unanswered, a comment, that wakes the pain up.
And each time I'd hurt, I'd tell myself "If you really love her, then you mustn't resent her for that, because she doesn't do it on purpose and you cannot ask more of her".
And I'd take the pain and seal it away and shrug.

But I am not doing exactly great these days.
I'm probably just a little over worked. So I am tired, which in turns mean I am probably too emotional, not really rational.
And the last little something was just too much.
It's nothing really. A missed opportunity to see each other due to her not responding in time, a wasted evening, a comment.
I know I am not a great person and that I should probably work on being more humble and more grateful. But here it is.
This small comment was too much. It wrecked me.
It profoundly wrecked me to my chore.
It woke up the pain and I wasn't capable of dismissing it this time.
It was there and I couldn't ignore it.

And Oh Boy it hurt.
How it hurt.
She will never love me as I love her.
No matter how much of myself I give, no matter how much of myself I give up, she will never love me like I do.
She will never be the one to initiate our conversations.
She will never choose me over.
Because I'll always be there.
She takes me for granted. And she's probably right to do so. I love her too much to abandon her anyway. I have loved her for so long I don't think I would recognize my life without her.
And Oh Boy this realization hurt.

I often feel lonely but I know I have only myself to blame for that.
After all I am the one building walls between and my friends.
Maintaining composure. Maintaining appearances. Never show weakness.
They mustn't know that I am not invincible. That things can get to me.
I am invincible. I am always here. Always reliable. Distant but rock solid.
So loneliness is a pain I'm familiar with. Intimate even.
But I can only blame myself for that.

There aren't any walls like that between me and her.

And right there, right then, as the wave of nausea and pain washed over me I thought,
Well maybe it should.
Maybe I could take some of the bricks from somewhere else and put them between me and her. Protect myself. I know she doesn't mean to harm me. But the pain is still there.
And I don't have to put up with it.

I have, out of love, out of loyalty, out of the puppy eyed admiration I have had for her since I met her and I was 15 and I was in love with her.
But I don't have to.

There are other people who I should take better care of.
People who like me, who love me and who might love me even more if I gave them the opportunity. If I invested more in them, in their friendship.
Maybe I should pay more attention to those who are here despite the distance I keep, despite my lack of time, despite everything.

I read something.
"It is unfair for those who love you to focus on those who don't."
And it helped.

I love her. I always have and always will.
But maybe It's time to question my priority.

Blood is thicker than water

But without water one dies.

I might be slowly, quietly, saying goodbye to my father.
I grew up terrified of the man.
I knew he loved me and I loved him back.
But I was scared.
Scared of his outbursts. Of how his voice carried when he was angry. Of the way his hands moved.
I grew up listening for the sound of the metal gate at the entrance of our driveway.
When our family crumbled and he couldn't house us anymore, I said:
Good.
I had decided I wouldn't go back to his place.
But my father was hurt and he needed us. So I kept quiet.
I hadn't been unwilling to see him, only to live with him.
So I was there.
Recovery was slow and difficult.
It changed him.
So when he got himself a place, to start again, to rebuild his life, his family, I said:
Fine.
And I moved in.
I helped us settle.
I chose to give him a second chance.
I don't think he ever understood this.
I accepted to pack luggage every two weeks despite the anxiety it gave me.
I accepted not to mention our previous life. Not to talk about how fucked up I was because of it.
I chose to be there.
Oh he is a loving father.
I never doubted it.
He will do crazy things for love. Drive, buy, build.
But here is the catch Dad.
This was never what I needed.
I need you to be mine. to be my dad.
I need you to choose me.
chose me over others.

I grew up terrified of being abandoned.
Because I wasn't good enough. Not serious enough, not studious enough, not quiet enough, not smart enough.
I was always terrible at making friends.
And even worse at keeping them.
My life is a long list of people that I used to be friends with.
So yes.
I am possessive.
I am jealous.
I am terrified of being alone.

We were never a tightly knit family, but at least we are a family. Right?
We would always chose each other over the rest.
What a comforting though.
Even if I give up on anyone else, you'll still be there.
You'll pick me over anyone else.
No strangers in our ranks.

My friends are often surprised to discover how much of my life I compartmentalize.
I guess I don't trust my friends to remain my friends if they meet my other friends.

When G asked me to disappear from her life, it hurt.
I had thought we would remain friends.
We had friends in common.
But I am terrible at maintaining friendship.
I was never chosen over in a separation.
So I lost my friends.
Even my best friend who refused to choose me over.

When you met Morgane's mother I was scared.
Scared of what would happen if you guys broke up.
Or worse, of what would happen if Morgane and I broke up.
Would I have to choose you over my best friend?
Would you have to choose between your girlfriend or your daughter?
I don't think I would have ever required this of you.
But I was scared. Because this were two spheres of my life colliding.
I was scared that the shock might push me aside. throw me away.
Make me disappear.

Discarding me is a national sport.
I say I am used to it but to be honest I am not.
I became independent because I didn't know how to be good enough for people to stick around.
I was lonely. I became solitary.

But I would always have my family.
People who would be there for me, even when all my friends had deserted.
People who would be there for me.

"I am happy for you" You said when we announced that H and I were going to get a civil union.
"I am happy for you" You said as I left the kitchen.
I put on my coat, grabbed my bag, said good bye to every one.
I was going to leave and you said:
"G passes her best wished to all the family"
And I froze.
And my stomach dropped.
And in my chest my heart beat hard.

Because here is the thing.
I wanted you to have chosen me over.
I wanted you to have heard my pain and said goodbye to her.
I wanted you to have never spoken to her again.
She had asked me to disappear and dutifully I had done so.
I had lost my friends in the process.
"it's his life, his flat, his choices. get over yourself." She had told me when I had found out that you had housed her. In our flat.
The flat where I kept my stuff.
The flat I had helped you move in.
The flat where I accepted to move in.
"Get over yourself" she said. Not in those terms I will concede.
But I didn't want to.
You were my dad. You were supposed to pick me over,
you were supposed to choose me over.
When everybody else left you were supposed to be mine still.
I didn't have to share you with strangers.
Am I afraid of being replaced by someone who is better than me?
Yes.
I have always been.
But I thought at least I wouldn't have to compete with anyone to be my parent's daughter.

But here is the thing.
I know my father loves me.
But not enough to choose me.
He loves me because he is my father.
But not because of who I am.
He loves me because he never had to choose me.

Opinions diverge here.
I might be asking too much. That I should accept that one's ability to love is not limited to a number of people and that my father is allowed to maintain his friendship with my ex-girlfriend even when she banished me from her life and that this doesn't make him love me any less.
That I am unfair. That I am immature. That I am too possessive.
And I understand all that. I have come to accept this for everybody.
Except my parents.
Cold love and broken bones never cured me from the primal need that I have to be loved by my parents.

So here it is.
I must accept to share.
I must accept that I might not be enough for my father. That he needs to care for other people. That he needs to feel loved and appreciated and that he needs the positive validation of being a father figure to others.
I cannot provide that.
I am not enough.

I do not trust you not to hurt me.
You might not hit me anymore.
But it still hurts.
You do not want to choose me.
Fine.
You don't have to,
But neither do I.
I do not have to hurt myself.
I do not have to try to earn your exclusive love.

So I will mourn my filiation.
I will quietly mourn my desire to have my father for myself.
I will quietly mourn my belief that no matter what you'd always choose me.
I will quietly mourn my need to be in your life.

Oh I won't disappear.
Not completely.
I'll be there if you need me.
But I won't need you anymore.
I won't rely on you.
It's okay.

On commitment

I asked.
We are going to become official.
Not a wed couple but the closest thing.
I asked.
To me this is a big thing.
We both are children of divorces. We have seen what marriage looks like when it crumbles down.
And to make it even better I have a record of breaking engagements.
Commitment isn't my strong suit.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet I asked.
I asked because I want to go abroad.
I want to go on an adventure.

I was discussing this with a friends a couple of weeks ago and she casually reminded me that if I wanted H to come with me, I had to pay attention to the dates and we'd need to get our status updated.
That was the pebble in the pond.
I started thinking.
Do I want H to come with me?
I like being my own captain, go wherever I want, not have to take anyone into account.
But he makes me feel safe. I might not go as far with him, but would I really go at all if I was alone or would I just keep postponing? I feel safer with him. I wouldn't be alone so the leap of faith doesn't seem as scary.
I am strong but he makes me stronger.
I can stand on my own, but it's easier to do it when he is by my side.
I want us to share this.

So I asked.
I sat there, staring at him and asking myself whether this was the right thing.
Is it true this time?
Do I really want this?
And he said yes.
And I felt so relieved.
This was like a weight off my chest. Had I been worried all this time?
I am so wary of toxic relations, so scared of being manipulated, gaslighted.
So afraid to commit myself to anything.
but he said yes and I felt so relieved.
Had I been afraid that he might say no?
Had I been afraid of it being the wrong timing?
Had I been afraid of not being the right person?
He said yes and laughed to see me so flustered. He laughed and smiled and said of course.
He said he was going to ask me soon. I am glad I did it though.

We ate and discussed plans. Realistic ones and fantasy ones.
We ate and we walked home.
We took the long way despite my high heels, because he knows I like walking the quiet streets at night.
We took the long way despite the cold because it was nice to be out.
We laughed as we got home.
And all was well.

Space to breath

When things get rough I tell myself:
"God will never give me more than I can handle"

Paul tells us: “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tested beyond your strength but with your testing he will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it”
(1 Corinthians 10:13)

When my breath is short I tell myself.
"nothing more than what I can handle"
When my heart pounds against my ribs.
"nothing more than what I can handle"
When my sight gets blurry and my hands shake.
"nothing more than what I can handle"

It is hard, it is painful but I shall endure.
Never more than what I can handle.
One step at a time I climb my mountain.
I shall not fall and I shall not break.

Never more than what I can endure 

The passing of time

I grow in my extremes, in paradox, in contradictions.
And I think I am fine with it.
I don't think I ever thought I actually grow up.
I never projected me much. All I knew was I wanted to be it. Whatever that is.

It is still true.
As I get older I become calmer, more organized.
I am tougher. I know all my demons. We cohabitate, mostly fine. Mostly.

I'm used to them and it's enough for me. Trying to shade them now would require more time and effort than I am willing to put in them. I'd rather invest in building myself.

The more I think about it, I realize that it is not so much failure that I am afraid of, but of mundanity.

I don't want to be just one more shadow. one more nameless grown up who used to have dreams and projects. I don't want daily life and petty concerns erase who I am.

I want to be bigger than my shrinking existence. I want to be brighter. I want to be remarkable.

I want to make something. I want to write. I want to create.

I'm bending time and trying to make sure that I don't let life grind me down.
I will steal time. Minutes here and there to create, to read, to learn.
I will make time, tighten my schedule where I must.
I will not give up.

Running out

The alarm goes off at 5.
Time to wake up and get ready. It's still dark outside.
6:11. I take the train, then the subway and then grab a bike. 17 minutes.
I have a bit more than 45 minutes before my first class starts. Check today's lesson, mark papers.
Mark papers.
Mark papers.
The bell rings and it's time to shine. Smile, encourage, be patient, be strict, be fair.
Hours fly by. Quick lunch then back to my desk.
Mark papers.
Mark papers.
Check today's class. Try to look human and to socialise too. It's important. Invest time in social interactions they say.
The bell goes off and back on stage.
In the class I feel like a whale in a too small tank.
Go to the teachers' room, say good bye to the rest of the staff.
Bike, Subway, Train. I try to read. This will be my only recess today.
Home. Fold laundry and put it away. Do the washing up. Check tomorrow's classes.
Mark papers.
Mark papers.
The bathroom needs cleaning. I should vacuum. The kitchen needs cleaning.
Gentle words and small attentions. He needs care and gentleness.
Food, Shower.
Don't think about tomorrow. Don't think about tomorrow. It will come soon enough. Too soon.
The alarm goes off at 5.

A delayed answer to an important question

Photo by Ksenia Chernaya from Pexels

"J'ai quelques difficultés à reconnaître à J.K.Rowling le pouvoir d'arbitrer les goûts, après avoir écrit des livres pour enfants."

It is the study of the stories that move us that allows us to reflect on who we are as people and as a society.
No matter how trivial the story, studying it gives us insight on ourselves as human beings.
Dissecting children's books helps us understand what we taught children, what those children took away from those teachings, what they needed, what they dreamt of, and maybe, just maybe it helps us understand their experiences, traumas and hopes.
Studying Media, any media, gives us the opportunity to empathize with others and to understand their needs and aspirations.
I am not saying that everything has the same value. I am saying that everything HAS value.
Why do people enjoy following the lives of the Kardashians? Well, that's an excellent question! Why?
Do they need to forget about the triviality of their own lives? Do they want to experience, by proxy, how it feels to be rich? Do they want to focus on somebody else's superficial problems rather than contemplate the meaning of their own life? Or the lack of meaning, and therefore cripplingly terrifying vacuity of their existence?
Do they feel disconnected from other media? If so why? Do they feel unworthy of other kinds of media? If so, why? Do they reject other media? If so why?

Studying media is always interesting.
Every book started as "just a book" and it is only what people read in the book and took away from it that made it into a classics or doomed it to oblivion.
Refusing to acknowledge the value of a media on the premise that it is too recent or too easily accessible is just the manifestation of the fear to be outdated. [source]
Once again. I am not saying that all media have the same value. I am saying that all media HAVE value, and subsequently that this value should not be lightly dismissed.
I am saying that STUDYING media, no matter its value, is important and has something to teach us.

Why is everyone making such a fuss about Harry Potter?
Because it is the closest thing its readers had of a universal experience.
A whole generation of children grew up reading those books.
This series, no matter how superficially or how deeply, influenced its readers. It influenced what traits the children reading it, associated with heroism, it influenced who those children looked up to, it influenced what values those children came to cherish, it influenced their perception of the world.
And the fact that they are Children books is crucially important because it influenced their readers at the moment where they shape who they are and who they want to be.
It doesn't matter that they were not "big books", or "smart books" or even "good books". What matters is that they echoed with their readers. They moved the readers.
Maybe they didn't do much: maybe they just provided a nice story to spend the afternoon on.
or maybe they did a little more: maybe they provided a nice break when reality was tough.
or maybe they did even more: They gave children who felt excluded or lonely something to feel like they belonged. They gave the children something to talk about and to share.
or maybe they gave children a taste for more. More than just reality. A taste for reading. It's important, right?
or maybe they offered food for thoughts for the children who felt a little lost.
or maybe they offered role models to children who didn't know who they wanted to become.

Those are mediocre! It's just stories for children.
The stories we tell children today are the stories that will shape tomorrow's society. That's the point of education. That's the power of education.

What do people find in those books?
They found something. A little something or a big something. Not the same something for everyone.
And this is what matters.
Not the quality of the writing,
Not the "literary value"(whatever that is).
But that it brought SOMETHING to the readers.

I know it did.
It was a story that allowed children to dream and play and imagine things.
It told children that being a good student is GOOD, even though it is difficult.
It told girls that they were allowed to be heroines alongside boys. It told girls that they were allowed to shine. Allowed to be loud and bright and not always ladylike and not always nice or kind.
It taught children about poverty. That children are not responsible for the poverty they grow up in. That poverty shapes the people who grow up poor, that nobody should ever use poverty as a lever for shame.
It taught children that small acts of kindness or of bravery matter.
It taught children that no, adults are not always right. That adults can't always be relied on. That adults can't always be trusted.

It taught me, personally, the me that you know, that you talk to, that you sat across from, that there was more to life than what I was going through.
It taught me, that family can be toxic and that it is not okay.
It made me want to be smart, to know everything, to learn everything, to try everything.
You think I am smart and interesting? Thank Hermione for that.
It made me forget about the world when life was so fucking hard I wanted to end it. And Oh Boy I wanted to end it.
It gave me words for the pain and the ache of losing someone I loved.
It gave me role models.
It still does.
Today, as a grown up, as an adult, as a woman, it gives me role models. As a teacher I want to be like Remus Lupin. I want to captivate my students, help them learn and make it an enjoyable experience. I want my students to remember my classes fondly. My teachers did not provide that for me. School was hell. Remus Lupin provided that for me.
I want to be like Minerva McGonagall. I want to inspire respect because I am strict but fair. Because I want the best not just of my students but for my students.
Those books matter because they told me that being rejected by my family for who I am and what I am would not be the end of me.
It helped because my dad was violent. It helped me because I grew up in a loving but utterly dysfunctional family.
It helped me when I came out as a lesbian. Which I am. Even today. It helped me hold my ground when my father, the man who had carried me on his shoulders, the man who had made me dive in the sea, the man who loves roller-coasters as much as I do but who has a drinking problem, who had a severe anger problem, the man who slapped me countless times, the man who had broken both my wrists once because I had lost a glove, the man whom I love but grew up terrified of, yelled at me. Yelled obscenities. Yelled that no, Me, his daughter would not be a lesbian. That he hadn't done anything wrong. That he would not allow that.
Me, 16 years old, 1,72m and 38kilos, I stood my ground.
I had grown up reading about children who saved the world, who were afraid but did what they had to nonetheless.

Studying Harry Potter then, later, as an adult, allowed me to become more aware of all this, more aware of how those books had impacted, me and everybody else, though differently.
It allowed me to question my perception of motherhood and to evaluate what expectations I had of being an adult woman, because it allowed me time and an opportunity to ask myself: " Is Harry Potter a feminist series" and to look for arguments.
It allowed me to understand why my generation seems to be so wary of politicians and so distrustful of the government and politics. We did grow up learning that adults could not be trusted and that it's not because an institution says something that we shouldn't question it.
We didn't learn it from 1984, because though it is a classic, it is also absolutely boring and not accessible to young children. We learnt it with Harry Potter, with His Dark Material, with Divergent, with the Hunger Games.
The millenials, no matter how flowed generational separations are, grew up at a moment where children's literature was all about questioning power and fighting oppression.
And don't get me started about the next generation. They've been fed with more diversity in the media they had access to, than anyone before, so much so that today, they teach me about which direction society could take.

Saying that a book is not worthy of the attention people give it or of being studied
Is willfully deciding not to empathize with other human beings.
It is deciding that their experience is not worth understanding.
It is saying that they, their lives and existences are not worthy of being acknowledged.
This got Trump elected.
This is the conscious alienation of a population on the basis that "they are not worth it."
This is cold.
This is sad.
And somehow, this is wrong.
Refusing to empathize with others? To understand them?
I cannot, for the life of me, accept that.
Understanding brings knowledge and peace.
That's what I grew up to believe.
And I grew up to believe that because of all the things that shaped me. Harry Potter is one of them.

I could be richer.
I could have a brilliant career in Marketing, make tons of money.
I know I can: I am good at it. It's easy.
But I grew up to be someone for whom money and ease were not as valuable as the impact I have on other people's lives.
I want to make a difference.
And this comes, at least in part,  from reading Harry Potter and later studying it.
And I am not the only one.

The storm within

There is a storm within me.
Howling and clawing in my empty chest.
My hands shake and I have to breathe deep so my voice doesn't tremble.
My lungs are tight, constrained.
I am short breathed.
I must stay grounded, not let myself be drowned.
I remind myself to be kind and patient because I know those are the first things the storm devours.
I must remind myself that I am still alive.
Sometimes I forget.