With shattered dreams comes the awake of convincing the soul to move forward. To pick up the pieces laying in ruins on the floor. An emptiness that settles in the silenced words of disappointment. As the tears stream in the stillness, there is no sound after the shatter. The clock ticks, but there is no rhythm. The walls seem to close in as my body gives way to the pressure. I reach a hand to the wall as my body slams to the wall, accepting the invitation to fall. I curl inward as the images swirl in my head. The questions unanswered. The dream already gone. How can I move amongst these shattered pieces? The darkness settles and I am alone. Uncertainty clouds thinking as I try to pick up the broken pieces before anyone sees.
No one will see the broken pieces of a dream as I place the pieces in a box and set it among the dust collecting on the shelf. People expect you to move on. To have it all together. To change your attitude. To suck it up. For months, I would never let the emotions show. The true emotions lay deep within the scars slashed on my heart. Occasionally my expression would reveal the scars, but no one could see the emotion for what it was. No one understood the weight of the shattered pieces lying on the shelf. When triggers of memories came, I swallowed the tears. I let the tears sink deep until the very moment someone looked beyond the surface. My eyes wavered with true expression as the question came of my authenticity. I could barely speak as the scars began to show. In shock of even my own emotions. My professor looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to fake it anymore’. In a culture where sensitivity is trampled upon, I learned to hide the true nature of who I was. A sensitive soul who feels and sees beyond what others choose to even glance at.
As my soul and all its slashes of scars began to show, I realized I had been apologizing and hiding the authenticity of my heart. To the point it wore down my ability to even recognize who I truly was. For so long people made me feel ashamed for being sensitive. Being teased, slashed at, and negatively spoken to about my sensitive heart. Yet, the fire was sparked. Despite all the slashes against my heart, I grew to understand myself beyond the opinion of others. It only took one person to look me in the eyes and actually see me for me to even recognize all the scars. And how beautifully broken my heart really is. Some scars may only take a couple weeks to heal, but for many of the scars, it will take a few seasons in life for the slashes to heal properly. I am no longer afraid to show my scars. Beyond the comments, the judgements, the abuse of my emotions, I choose to stop apologizing for being exactly who I am. And you should too.