If I was braver, I would tell you I was a fairy who lost her wings. Who grew cold in the shackles of man and started to whither away. Until one day, a speck of light appeared very far away.
Each day like crawling through broken glass, bleeding and broken reaching towards the speck. Each night spent with head in hands and tears running, as it disappeared and the dark loomed. Each morning it reappeared and the crawl began again. Over night the wounds healed as the tears flowed, only to be reopened during the next day's crawl. The crawl is desperate and feels hopeless, but what else is there to do?
One day, the scabs don't crack open as much and the speck appears a little bigger. New cuts appear as the old ones scab over. The big ones still bleed sometimes causing such pain, that there's nothing to do but stop and breath. Deep shaky breaths until it passes over, only to find that the light is fading and one can crawl no longer that day.
The day comes when it's not a crawl but a shuffle on two feet bent, with hands supporting as need be. The feet aren't strong yet, scabbed over and still bleeding, weak from not having walked in a long time. The knees bruised and swollen from falling. But up and forward,
up and forward,
up and forward.
The shuffle becomes more stable. The speck a little bigger. The feet become callused, the knees are no longer swollen. There hasn't been a fall in a very long time. The shaky breathes show a smile and eyes bright with hope.
The shuffle becomes a jog and the jog becomes a run. The arms begin to pump. The shaky breath becomes deep concentrated movements with focus. The speck is a speck no longer.
If I was braver, I would tell you I was a fairy who lost her wings. But never lost her hope.
I'm a lifestyle blogger, covering deep subjects including body images, battles with food, and overcoming how I was raised. I try to be as authentic as possible and I don’t sugar coat how I see things.