Journal Entry #7

After a while, I’ve realized: I come from a place many people struggle to rise above. I come from the shadow of a woman who strove for greatness; I come from the shame of a man who could not stay to see it. I come from hundreds of pages of books filled with endless emotion and happiness and tears; I come from the bristles of paintbrushes and every deliberate stroke of paint.

I did not come from a kind family; I did not come from the warm embrace of the two halves that make a family. I did not come with the willingness of the brave soldier God made me out to be, and probably expected me to become. I did not come from the vexing word problems and formulas on my math homework, and  I did not come from the kindness that the world promised to give me. I did not come from greatness.

But I built a path to greatness from scratch, and I reinforce it every day. 

The American dream was always so alien to me. Academic excellence, high school sweethearts, graduating with honors, a successful career, marrying into affluence, children to carry on your legacy, a loving husband to take to your grave; it was all so simple, yet so out of reach. Because not everyone gets it simple; not everyone reaches their academic goals. Anyone can find love, but not everyone compromises to feed and water it. Anyone can have children, but not everyone can be a parent. My story had already been written from the moment I was born a female, following the blurry vision my mother had laid out for me. Blurry, as it did not carry out how she’d hoped. 

But I think I’m doing just fine, for a girl who turned out to be okay in a world that made it nearly impossible.

My partner was never very religious. Not that I’d ever asked; a sensitive topic for most. I know he believes but doesn’t practice, per se. I’m not an active practitioner either, but I stood firm on one fact: when you've lost faith in everything, God leaves gentle, everyday reminders that there’s still hope. Because without hope, we have nothing. 

“God gives the toughest battles to His strongest soldiers”. He said, “Your mother’s vision of you is blurry because she can’t see you with the backlight of the sun. Because that’s how high you've made it.” He told me one night. I was having one of those days. You know those days. Seeing that message after days upon days of believing the Father had completely forsaken me was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I cried and cried and cried and cried. Cried some more. And finally exhaled some relief.

Fresh canvases open worlds of new possibilities; a brand-new start, a redo. They’re gates to the imaginative part of your brain. But without effort, love, tears, sweat, and deep emotions, a canvas is just a space. A space desperately waiting to be filled with tender love and care, to be useful and not used, to become something more. In retrospect, life is, in fact, an empty canvas, and every day is a new dash of paint. Our paintings aren’t perfect. They don't need to be perfect; they just have to be. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone has their flaws, everyone slips. It’s strenuous to give when you don’t have enough for yourself. It’s strenuous providing paint for someone else’s canvas when yours has little to nothing. But for me, it's never a bother to give more than I take. I try not to let myself get pushed over for it; I can (not so easily) identify when I'm being useful and when I'm being used.

I love giving. I love the feeling of giving. I love the smile on people’s faces when I give. I love having something to give. Because no matter how much I’m giving, I feel like I'm receiving the same amount back.

Yesterday was okay, today was good, and tomorrow will be better. Not for anything in particular. Not for the friends' hangout at someone’s house, or the birthday next Saturday, or the pages of my favorite book, or the meal made by my grandmother waiting for me at home, or waiting for school to end to finally talk to my person. 

But because I know I’ll get to have those things over and over and over. Because tomorrow is inevitable; it spares no one. 

And I’m forever grateful it’s never spared me.