I have lived my life according to rules that no longer apply.
I don’t have to be silent, angry, incredibly hurt and grieving.
Fifty-five now and practising
The Art of Becoming.
Becoming comfortable in my skin. Making peace with being the squeaky wheel, the outcast, the liar.
Rejected for telling the truth, I didn’t know who I was any more. None of my assigned roles were really me.
I decided I want to really live before I die. Listening to myself and not the clamor of voices telling me who I was, who I should be.
I see their lips moving, but I don’t hear them any more.