NONA
July 2, 2019
Thirty four years ago, I was born in a house in the woods. My midwife was named Mercy and I broke my mother’s tailbone for the second time, two years after my sister had broken it when she was born.
In my young years, I loved fantasy and beauty and macabre stories and secrets and old musicals and magic. I have always had a strong desire to befriend my darkness and a passion for shining my light.
I have spent many of my days on earth seeking out ways to get my feet as dirty as possible. I have spent many days crying on the floor. I have a passion for climbing to the highest places and for gazing at clouds and for feeling cold air on my skin. I have lived dramatically, stirred the pot, demanded attention, and danced with my big emotions across both literal and figurative stages. I have lived quietly, struggled to speak, let myself be walked over, choked on my own words, handed people the keys to my disappointment, hurt other humans, and betrayed myself in the name of love.
For years I was suicidal and kept living, barely, out of sheer curiosity (in hindsight maybe I should call it hope).
Last year at this time, I stood up sharply from the center of my being and held strong boundaries against what I had been allowing to harm me. I woke the giant that had been sleeping inside. Throughout the year, I let my passion lead me around the world. I stopped trying to do it all on my own, allowed myself to be cared for by others and I grew, astronomically, audaciously, exquisitely, toward a life that honors the little girl who was born by mercy on those bedsheets in the house in the woods so long ago.
Today, I woke to the desert sun, the warm body of a noble lover, a fresh cup of coffee, a photo session to edit, and with gratitude for the curiosity (or hope) that continually reminds me to look for the magic and stay.
WHY
Like many women who were raised in fundamentalist homes, I was taught that my greatest value was in companionship, and that it was my duty to offer my time and effort to support a partner. Because of this, I faced an internal battle between the light that lives inside my heart and the persistent belief that I must sacrifice my dreams and vision to a husband who, I believed, had greater opportunities for success.
I internalized these beliefs as self doubt, self criticism, and a decades-long battle with my identity. I spent many years in a high stress relationship, constantly battling the fires in front of me. I identified as gritty and resilient - the traits I admired in the women who came before me. There were days when I would catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and watch as the stoic face melted into an expression of agony. Some days I would crumple to the cold tile floor and breathe until my tears dried. Then, as many women do, I composed myself, washed my face, and walked back into my life of caregiving.
I can still bring myself back to the first moment that I held a DSLR in my hands, how the weight of it gave me a sense of significance, as if maybe my voice and my vision mattered in some way and deserved to exist in the world. There was a magic to that moment, like when Mary first holds the key to the Secret Garden and suddenly she has a bit of earth to plant her feelings in that belongs to her.
It’s been over a decade since I used that camera to take my first self portraits. It began with those moments of recognition in the mirror, but instead of crumpling to the floor, I would set up my camera and express my emotions in front of the lens so that when I walked back into my life I wouldn’t forget what was happening beneath the surface. The photos I took began to weave a narrative that showed me the truth of my inner experience. Instead of placing my value in the sacrifices I made for others, I began to see value in the way I show up as my true self, in vulnerable honesty.
If there is one thing I know, it’s that one woman’s voice can unlock the voice of many, and that the reason to stand on a platform and hold my head high and speak in my brave girl voice is to reach those women who stand where I once did, in front of the mirror, and do not yet recognize themselves.
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