She’s welcoming and inclusive of every woman who is on the journey back to herself.
The lotus, a symbol of enlightenment, self-regeneration and rebirth. Also, tattooed very boldly on my back with an anchor. The anchor providing me with mobile stability in constantly moving waters. A cover up and a gift to myself.
Her story in me, was birthed the moment my childhood was taken from me in the chaos of dysfunctional family patterns, mental health issues and addiction.
It was in the instant that I became my brothers’ mother, instead of their sister. Denying myself of a relationship with them that my adult self has no idea how to cultivate, yet.
She was begging to come out when I trapped myself in a life that repeated my childhood.
She showed up when I was forced to retrace the steps back to every event in my life that I thought would have destroyed me.
She helped me chip away at the edges that hardened me during the process of protecting myself.
And softened me when I had to hug the little girl of my past. When I loved on her, wiped away her tears and reassured her that it’s okay.
I’ve got her now.
She was there when I had to look at all the faces that were present during those times. To forgive them. I now know, they were doing the best they absolutely could with what they had.
She saw me when I stood at my mother’s grave site, cemented in place, unable to throw that last rose, vowing that her life would not be in vain.
She was there in the understanding that I was handed the baton in a generational curse. And the problem with generational curses is they are guarded by dragons that are well fed. Ready for the fight. Because of this, sometimes it takes several generations to break. So, we keep passing the baton in hopes of freeing ourselves, our mothers, daughters and sisters.
She let me run away when I thought moving to another country would free me of those chains.
Then, she hugged me when I realized that the shackles that held me down were not visible. It did not scream to the passersby that I was trapped. It was in the way I lived, showed up at work, met confrontation, parented and loved.
She is the image that has no intention of continuing the show. No longer sitting pretty in that box. She’s ready to fight the demons, face the challenge and sit in the flames of hellfire to cleanse herself.
Don’t we all look a little sexier with sweat glistening off of us. A little more empowered. Badass.
One day, Layla, my daughter will get the baton but she won’t be handed that with the weight of a team relying on her to get it right.
I will gently place it in her hands, rest my forehead on hers and tell her, Baby this is your race. You get to start fresh. Run this race in circles, with a tutu on, sit on the track, whatever your little heart wants. You’re free.
So, there she is, the face of my blog, Memoirs of a Healing Woman.
As always, I hope you find refuge in her and in the words on this page. You have a tribe here.
1 thought on “The Healing Woman”
So much of your story is similar to my mom’s story and mine in turn, the generational baton being passed along. Thanks for sharing your journey…so much love for you, your daughter, and your writing!