My past is pretty bad. I know we all have journeys and stories to tell, however this is mine. I don’t think I’m ready to share what was in my past right now and I don’t think this journal entry is made for that. What I wanted to talk about it’s about being strong,brave, and broken all at the same time.
I once had a professor tell me you can’t climb a smooth mountain, how else would you gain strength and muscle? That has forever stuck in my head as a part of being brave and reaching out to grab that next rock or to put my Warface on and put my foot up against that next ledge in the mountain. Sometimes I just wish that there were more stopping points or caves to rest in because I am weary from climbing. I look at the mountain and I say there is no way that I’m strong enough to climb this. I’ve had too many injuries, I’ve made to many mistakes slipping and falling because I grabbed on to loose stones or put my foot on a slippery slope.
Sometimes, I just want to give up and propel my way down and stay on the ground where it is safe. Then I have to wrestle in my mind, and remind myself, no you’re brave Michelle you’ve made it 1/2 of the way up!!! What about all the guts, strength, and determination it took you to get here?!
In these moments I’m indifferent to my own inward confliction and I just want to not only go back down the mountain, I want to jump off the cliff. It’s so hard to keep going and it’s even harder to start back from the bottom. Adulting, as I call it, is hard, life is hard. It’s more than hard, it is excruciating at times, in fact more times than not.
So in this moment I’m trying my best to be brave during times of brokenness. It like climbing the mountain with one broken arm, a couple of broken ribs, and thin rope. My rope can barely hold me much less others climbing the mountain beside me. The people that have been holding on to my rope have frayed it from their own life propels…down and up, down and up, and eventually the rope is going to snap killing us all.
My rope may look strong on the outside but it is made of broken and loose strands. It’s only made for me, to carry myself up the mountain. Others need to realize they have their own ropes and equipment and they need to help me by encouraging me get to the next summit, alive, because I have no encouragement left. I’m alone in my tent surrounded by other hurt climbers in their own tents and it seems that I am the only brave climber on the team.
The others come to my tent full of discouragement or loose cliche words, “you’re gonna make it”, or how about “be encouraged you’re close to the top”. Or how about the people that say, “michelle remember the time when you made that bad decision on your journey?” Or “remember that time you had all 3 of us on your rope and all of us fell because of you.” Yes I remember, painfully remember. I remember failing miserably and taking people down with me. Those memories don’t just control,alt,delete. They are filed away, just waiting for the next person to come and read my file out loud to me again. Sometimes the people that you unintended to take down with you, will never forgive you and will never let you heal. They see healing and decide to punch you right were the original break happened. They double click, open the files, and remind you of your life sentence of breaking their bones. I’m stuck repairing everyone.
The past two weeks I have been recovering from first a small snow drift that escalated into an avalanche. I am wounded and have stayed in my tent until I can heal and become brave again. I have to tend to my own wounds, because it’s just me and God.
Only God can keep me alive. It’s hard to be brave, strong, and broken at the same time.