Last Sunday night I challenged myself to be BRAVE. Not the loud in your face kind of courage that the world seems to applaud when it goes viral on Instagram posts. 

But the quiet bravery. The one that requires a strength no one can visually see most days. But that must be felt in your core.

The task set at hand was a long time coming. I’d been holding on to something far longer than necessary. Twelve somethings it would turn out to be. And three hours of tearing and ripping and trying not to shake and cry and scream all at once.

Last Sunday I tore up my journals. Over 3000 pages documenting scary moments that I would never have imagined, yet actually lived through.

And in doing so, I hoped to free myself from the weight of carrying around visual reminders of a nightmare that I still re-live often in my sleeping hours. But maybe, just maybe, the process of destroying these journals would also sever the link that tethered me to my past.

Maybe I would finally be free to move forward.

But like many good stories, to understand how I got to this place where destruction allowed me to rebuild my life, we have to start in the past. 

​“Why do you even bother writing?”

It wasn’t the question itself, but rather the insolent way she said it. As though writing was a waste of time. No, wait. That’s not quite it.

As though ME writing was a waste of time.
She was rather nasty the way she asked it, but, for some reason, I still felt compelled to answer.

“I write for myself,” I replied.

She sneered. Looked like she was going burst out in laughter at the response. “For yourself? Hardly.” She halfway rolled her eyes. “If you were truly writing for yourself, why would you even bother to put it on a public website where anyone could see it?”