More Strength

We've all seen the afterschool specials, read the articles, and heard the interviews. Someone experiences a traumatic event, tries to ignore it, makes bad decisions, tells a trusted friend, finally acknowledges the impact of the trauma, tells the world, and then the music starts, the clouds part, the sun shines, and life is great again. This storyline has inspired us and started necessary conversation, but it's also incomplete. What happens following that breakthrough day? What happens with life after?

Years ago I consumed as many of those types of stories as I could. I needed proof that life could be beautiful after trauma. Those stories got me to my liberating, I'm-telling-everybody moment, yet there was a gaping hole. No one talked about life after—after the big reveal, after the inspirational song ended, after members of their support system went back to being occupied with their own lives, after they could name the trauma and those who caused it without crumbling, after those who said they would always be there started to look for an out clause or expiration date, and after they got tired of having to be so damn strong all of the time.

Healing is a lifelong process and I had to learn that the length of that process wasn't my fault. It wasn't because I wasn't praying hard enough or trying hard enough. It wasn't because I didn't have enough faith. It wasn't because I hadn't forgiven. It wasn't because I hadn't talked about it enough. It wasn't because I wasn't enough.

I had strength, but as life happened, I needed more. I needed more strength when I got close to new people. I needed more strength as conversations turned to why I wasn't spending the holidays with my family. I needed more strength when my nieces and nephew turned five, the age my traumatic journey started. I needed more strength when I started counseling. I needed more strength when people I loved judged me for taking care of myself. I needed more strength each time I got a new doctor and had to divulge that I'd been raped. I needed more strength when those who abused me sent Facebook friend requests. I needed more strength when my dad, one of my biggest supporters, died. I needed more strength simply because life required me to be stronger.

You have worked to reach where you are today, but life is going to demand that you become even stronger. That isn't a reflection of a deficiency in your efforts, your toughness, nor who you are. As you grow older, life simply requires more. Continue fighting for peace of mind. Continue making healthy choices. Continue walking in and building your strength. As life requires more, you will not only become stronger, you'll become more—more self-aware, more grateful, more fulfilled, more peaceful, more loving, more honest, and more unapologetic about living out your purpose.

Lens of Truth

I am a reformed liar and there was a time when I wouldn't have even been honest about that. I portrayed more than I lived because pretending seemed less complicated, less painful, and less frightening. When flashes of reality snuck past the surface I ran back to the perceived safety of the closet containing all of my secrets and slammed the door. I told myself that the lying I did was acceptable—yet another lie—because I wasn't hurting anyone. Yet that was the most detrimental untruth because I was hurting myself.

There is something extremely terrifying about honesty. It's the reason so many clichés, expressions, songs, poems, books, shows, and films are centered around the truth—hiding it or finding out about it. Most of us have convinced ourselves or have been persuaded by others that certain areas of our lives are better concealed or easier to deal with if we don't actually deal. The problem is that we can never grow into our fullest selves without first being aware of who we are. We can never reach where we're going if we aren't first honest about where we've been. We can never heal if we don't acknowledge that we hurt.

The closet containing my secrets, where I perceived safety because it didn't require me to expose my hurt, was harmful. It felt comfortable, but it was stifling and suffocating. It was only through the lens of truth that I could acknowledge the negative impact of hiding my pain and open the door. It was only through the lens of truth that I could see the dark cloud of dishonesty choking the life out of me. It was only through the lens of truth that I could bear to be brave enough to fully live. It was only through the lens of truth that I could tell my story and trust that I would survive telling it as I continue to survive living with it.

Change from Pain

There was a time when I hoarded hurt. Depending on the day, I either convinced myself not to bother anyone with it or that I couldn't trust anyone with it. The truth was that I didn't feel strong enough to deal with it. I didn't feel strong enough to share, open up, trust, be vulnerable, nor approach the healing process. Eventually, the combination of the pain and self-inflicted isolation demanded more of me. I needed to stop hoarding hurt and start healing.

Hurt is a part of life that we all experience. The sources vary, but all hurt leads us to change. Some become hardened and refuse to feel or connect with others. Some become fragile and develop an inability to cope with day-to-day stress. Most of us land somewhere in the middle. We have a tough exterior and a soft center. We ignore how we feel until it becomes undeniable and we distract ourselves in the lives of others.

The hurt that you have experienced has changed you. It may have made you more cautious or intentional about the people you allow in your life. Maybe it has led you to be externally focused in giving to others or by feeding on the negativity of others. Maybe your hurt has led you to be brutally honest with everyone but self. Or maybe you avoid being truthful and free. It's possible that you aren't exactly sure how your hurt has changed you.

When you experienced neglect, disappointment, betrayal, a health challenge, loss, and/or trauma, it impacted your personality. It altered how you handled relationships. It shifted your outlook and perception. You may interpret that to mean a negative change or one that has made you somehow less of who you were prior. That does not have to be true.

Not every change resulting from pain has to be detrimental. Pain can lead you to be more considerate of others. Pain can encourage you to focus less time on superficial interactions so that you can engage in deeper, more meaningful relationships. Pain can lead you to living more honestly and freely. In order to move forward, pain demands more of you. Working through it will show you just how powerful, resilient, and strong you are. You may not always have control of the hurt that enters your life, but you can determine how that hurt will impact your life. The only thing more tragic than the pain that you have already endured would be to give your pain the power that was intended for you.

Permission to Heal

Perception influences how we face life's challenges. We understand the care and patience needed to cope with circumstances like loss, an injury, or an equal opportunity illness. These situations, and ones like them, are not attached to judgment so we give ourselves proper time and permission to heal. However, not all circumstances elicit the same reaction.

In 2011, my father died suddenly. I have given—and will continue to give—myself the space to acknowledge what I feel, talk about him, and do what is necessary to cope with his absence. I don't pretend or hide my hurt to make anyone, including myself, more comfortable because I don't see the need. There is no judgment attached to my grief. I haven't been so kind to myself in all situations, though, and as a result, I have complicated and extended my healing process.

I was sexually abused for seven years. The emotion tied to simply making that straightforward admission is exactly what made the road to recovery difficult and complex. Unlike grieving the loss of my father, shame and self-blame was connected to the abuse so I did everything I could to avoid facing its impact on my life. Instead of focusing energy and attention on pursuing peace and making emotionally healthy decisions, I tried to protect myself by ignoring its influence and I tried to protect others from my pain by hiding it. I muted my hurt and took on the unreasonable responsibility of making others comfortable with what I had to endure.

Maybe you have an issue that you've attached to shame, guilt, self-blame, or disappointment. Whether you are coping with the effects of child abuse, sexual assault, abandonment, neglect, domestic violence, infidelity, an eating disorder, an addiction, or a mental health issue, acknowledge your truth and work through the process of recovery. Release the judgment(s) attached to your circumstance. Detach from anyone or anything that hinders your healing. Let go of the notion that it's been long enough already. Free yourself from making others comfortable with what you had to endure. When you separate judgment from your circumstance, you can walk in your truth and give yourself permission to heal.

Permanent Minded

There is always one area of our lives that is the least favorable for us to work on. We avoid it. We ignore it. We dread it. However, failure to work through that particular area is what prevents us from flourishing. If we would push ourselves out of the temporary, fearful, uncomfortable place, we could walk into a permanent, peaceful, healthy space.

In recent years there has been an area of my life that I avoided. I convinced myself that I could get by without working on it. My rationalizations were persuasive. It isn’t that important. I would never—no matter how hard I tried—reach a level of normalcy anyway. I deserve letting that one fall short because I have done so much work reconciling my childhood already.

The beautiful—and sometimes irritating—part of growing and being more authentic is that it eventually becomes impossible to brush off emotional deficiencies. Over time, we grow less satisfied letting areas in which we excel or have handled well compensate for areas we’ve hidden or neglected. Eventually, we can no longer ignore those gapping holes.

The more I grew, the more aware I became, and one day it was impossible for me to continue ignoring the gapping hole in my healing process. I freed myself to feel it and had the nerve to allow someone else to walk that journey with me. It was already scary, but it was increasingly unnerving because someone else was going there, too, and that's yet another source of difficulty—exercising trust and vulnerability. 

In the beginning, giving myself permission to be transparent didn’t seem to help. It actually seemed worse. Sadness crept up on me more often. I hadn’t felt that dependent or needy before opening up. I actually thought I’d regressed so I considered making changes to prevent the sad, dependent, and needy feelings from returning. I was certain I’d made a mistake and was actually mad at myself for thinking that I could discuss that area of my life and get better.

Even still, I couldn't forget how impossible it had become for me to overlook the holes in my emotional health. I forced myself to continue through that uncomfortable phase. What I realized was that I hadn't regressed. I hadn't made a mistake. I was being open about something I previously refused to acknowledge. Of course I had feelings! Working through those temporary feelings has given me permanent clarity. I've become aware and now understand that:

1. I will no longer make excuses or apologies for my feelings. 
2. I am no longer conditioned to suffer silently and alone.
3. I am no longer convinced that it is acceptable for me to be anything less than whole. 
4. I will no longer make a potentially permanent decision because on temporary feelings. 

Know that you are worth the work it takes to become whole. Recognize that how you feel at the start of a process is not a reflection of how you'll always feel. Push yourself out of the temporary, fearful, and uncomfortable places so that you can walk in a permanent, peaceful, and healthy space.

Reflections of Cape Town, South Africa

My initial trip to Cape Town occurred when I was twenty-years-old. I prepared to set foot on African soil for the first time filled with a lot of questions and uncertainty. I saw the city—one that didn’t look much different from many cities I’d visited in the States—and wasn’t certain what to make of it. I didn’t recognize it as Africa. It wasn’t the Africa I’d learned about in school or saw on television. I saw excess. I saw commercialism. I saw lush vegetation. I saw a mountain that signified power, strength, and longevity. It was a long way from the dirt-covered, fly-infested, safari-filled Africa that the media and my school books shoved in my face. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was I supposed to be pleased that Africa was more than what I’d been presented? Or should I have been upset by the one-sidedness that I’d been exposed to?

Cape Town, South Africa is an incredibly beautiful, seemingly fictional place. Located on the Atlantic Ocean and surrounded by majestic Table Mountain, it is hard not to be distracted by its breathtaking natural beauty and lush greenery. In addition to its stunning physical allure, the city is filled with an international flare of people. As magnificent as the city and its people are to behold, neither compare to the beauty I’ve found in something far more influential.

I tried to take Cape Town for what it was. I accepted the beauty. I appreciated the sense of familiarity. However, there was something very odd lurking in the seemingly perfect African city. In this picturesque, gorgeous backdrop the remnants of something evil and ugly was hiding that carried about as much weight as Table Mountain. In 1999 apartheid had been over for nine years, and while it was over, the impact was apparent. I’m positive that the residue of apartheid had been lost on some of my fellow classmates, but it was clear to me that I existed in a world that operated differently than what I saw. None of the consumers looked like me. None of the people living near the attractive and charming area that the 600 American students were plopped into looked like me either. I saw people with my complexion, but they were not consumers or residents of the Cape Town I walked around. People who looked like me were behind counters, selling items, or living in areas that required us privileged American students to take a faculty-directed practicum trip in order to see. People who looked like me were not active participants in the economy on Cape Town’s preferred, show-to-company side of town.

I wanted to experience as much of Cape Town as I could, but I wasn’t sure where I fit. Should I shop as the American privileged student and show South Africa that it was possible for someone like me to be an active participant? Should I be ashamed of having the means and more importantly, the audacity to expect that I could walk around in that pristine area with my head held high? What was I to make of the township visits? Were they supposed to show me where my kind belonged? Or should I have looked at it and simply been grateful that I wasn’t born here?

Fast-forward to 2011. I didn’t know how I would feel about Cape Town post-Mandela’s presidential term. Had anything changed? Would I feel as conflicted as I had during my first visit? Once again, I stepped off of the ship filled with uncertainly. I was pulling for Cape Town, though. I was hoping that twelve years had done more for the city than I’d even witnessed at home. I wanted Cape Town to show me that it was serious about revolution. I needed to see what that looked like.

I got off the ship this time and the picture-perfect area that our shipped was docked had expanded. It remained stunning and breathtaking, especially with Table Mountain huddled over it like a proud parent. Economically, I knew that the last twelve years had been good. As I ventured out I looked at the people around me. I looked for the people who looked like me. I saw them. They were behind counters and selling items. Yet they weren’t the only ones behind counters and selling items. Even more encouraging, the people who looked like me were also in line with me. They entered the same stores, ate at the same restaurants. They were a part of Cape Town in a way that I hadn’t seen prior. It made me smile.

I’m not suggesting that all of the work is done or over. There is still a major disparity between rich and poor. Townships still exist. Children from townships still aren’t being educated at the same levels as children who aren’t from townships. However, I can see the progress. In twelve years, improvements have begun. When the manifestation of change is evident it means that the movement has momentum.

I love Cape Town because nearly twenty years after the end of apartheid I can see signs of progress trickle down to the masses. I love Cape Town because it is not afraid to have the difficult, uncomfortable, race-related conversations. I love Cape Town because the student union at the University of Cape Town is named after anti-apartheid activist Steve Biko. I love Cape Town because in the twelve years since I visited, I feel improvement. While I am grateful to have some comfort in the ease of navigating the culture, I love its willingness to transform. While I am in awe of Table Mountain, I love the strength of the people it oversees. While I appreciate its beauty, I love Cape Town so much more for modeling forgiveness, restoration, love, humility, and humanity.