Falling…
I wish I had fallen in love with myself much sooner. Before they told me what I was and what I could never be; before they played politics with my skin and tried to convince me that my black was not beautiful.
I wish I had fallen in love with myself much sooner. Before he first suggested that the power in my voice, the courage of my convictions, the light in my heritage, all needed dimming so his could shine.
I wish I had fallen in love with myself much sooner. Before I was forcefully marched into battle, danced with depression and acquired the scars; before I picked up the weapons that still left me defenseless and surrendered my power to an unworthy cause.
I would’ve embraced the curl in my hair, the chocolate brown in my skin and the small of my back that envelopes the birthmark I abhorred for mapping me. I would have stood in defiance of the tumultuous assault and chosen me over a counterfeit belonging that attempted to consume my inherent dignity.
Had I fallen in love with myself much sooner, I would’ve insisted that my worth was non-negotiable, my dignity irreversible, my strength undeniable. I would’ve been kinder in the words I chose to define me, narrower in the access I granted to fools and wiser in the decisions that ultimately shaped my being.
But now I have.
And so I shoulder the lessons to embolden me; lay bare my scars to empower the wounded; and lean into love again because I have found myself and everything is as it should be.
