My baby girl is asleep next to me for the third night in a row.
Another sleepless night where she wanders into my room seeking comfort.
Sometimes, I don’t understand how someone so cruel, who caused me so much pain, could be half responsible for making this beautiful, sweet, kind, empathetic innocent little girl lying in bed next to me.
I’m so angry I could cry — if I had any tears left.
My heart hurts, and my body shakes with frustration. But buried deep inside that pain is a ferocious twinge, a gravitational pull coming to fruition — a mother’s instinct, perhaps.
Natural. Strong. Courageous.
I am not scared anymore.
I am not scared to write my story the way I want to write it — the way I need to write it.
I am not intimidated; I am strong.
I am in control of my life.
I am not listening to anyone but myself and my intuition. (And sound advice, of course, if it comes my way)
I’m coming out of the fog.
I hear my voice again, and it’s beautiful.
It’s loud, clear, and fearless.
“Just breathe. No matter what happens, you can handle it, and you will be okay.” — Lori Deschene
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Previously Published on Medium
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