I want to spend the rest of my life studying relationships. There, I said it. Yes, I want to be a writer and a teacher and a coach and a friend and a mom and I want to be more than adequate at all of them (hence, anxiety).

But if worst comes to worst and I can only be and do one thing, I want to be good at relationships and I want to do the hard work of ciphering through and determining what it means to develop and nurture healthy, loving, sustainable ones.

The crutch? My overall remorse? The one thing that keeps me up at night, drooling over open pages of books written by authors who seem to have it together or are more than willing to join me in the ambiguity of what it means to be successful in this pursuit…is the truth that I’M NOT THAT GOOD AT RELATIONSHIPS.

I want to rant and scream and cry, and yet most of the time I stay unhealthily quiet and submissive on this topic, but it’s true and it tears at the edges of who I am.

I’m not good at holding on, I’m too good at letting go. I don’t trust anything for the life of me. I convince myself of characteristics and facts that have no validity. I’m a terrible griever. I live in the past. I’m hurt easily, and quickly. I go too far, too fast. I back-peddle. I get quiet when I should speak up. I run away. I run back when it’s too late. I expect people to understand emotions I’ve never verbalized. I take things out of context. I get scared. I think too much.


I’m irrevocably, embarrassingly, undoubtedly, damaged.

And I don’t know how to advance without continuing to fall down the slippery slope of beginning and maneuvering through the brokenness of relationships.

I know I’m not good at relationships, and in the same breath I know my only purpose here is to be in them.

So I’m getting up today and starting over. I’m looking at the long list of my flaws and taking a deep breath.

I’m taking what I know for sure and what I don’t know at all and I’m finding a common ground to begin building something stable.




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