I was broken by a lack of healthy attachment and inherited relational trauma and an unhealthy blended family situation that forever-changed the make up of my heart.
I learned that love looks like a thing love doesn’t actually look like. I will never be who I could have been if things had been different.
That doesn’t make my life a waste or make me unworthy of good things.
It doesn’t mean I have to hate the people who broke me (though I used to, and if you hate someone right now that’s okay.)
But it also doesn’t mean I need to pretend my emotions weren’t dropped on the floor a thousand times and walked on and accidentally kicked around and into corners.
I was broken. Telling people like me — and maybe like you - that we’re not is denying a major part of who we are. It slows our healing because it adds a layer of needing to process the shame we feel for feeling broken when everyone tells us that, actually, we’re not.
I’m still putting my pieces back together.
And that’s okay.