I don’t know exactly when it started to happen.
But there was a moment in time when things shifted towards more happiness than hopelessness.
More joy than resistance.
More cheer than angst.
More present than past.
But it took me a decade to get there.
Yes ten whole years.
That’s 3,652 days.
That’s 87,658 hours.
For every one of those days and hours I became my own best friend.
I talked myself out of staying in the waiting room.
I talked myself out of thinking of myself as a victim, as widow, as weak, as alone, as abandoned, as unworthy, forgotten, lost.
And told myself that I had something special inside of me.
I was the underdog. I was the woman who could… and that I could keep going.
I was kind to myself.
At night when the world would reject me, I would accept me.
When every day I found closed doors, every night I assured myself that the door keepers were mistaken.
When I wanted to hide, I slowed myself down and only took tiny steps until I could do more.
So I started to be ok with who I was, how I climbed, how unsocial or social I was, how loving or unloving I was and what made me or didn’t make me happy.
I finally started looking for my own definition of good, my own definition of happy.
When I started being ok with my own kind of happy everything became better.
I didn’t resist myself anymore.
I didn’t feel as much guilt.
I didn’t have shame.
I embraced the uniqueness of my life after loss.
Who I had become.
And that got me out of hopelessness.
I became my own best friend.
And I gave to myself what the world was not ready to give me.
Today, I am asking you to start giving to yourself.
When you go to bed tonight and think about all the bad things that happened in your day be kind to yourself.
Tell yourself that you are worthy of a million stars, of the brightest moon and of a million open doors.
Because you are.