There’s a fine line between healing and being identified by our wounds.
I was raised to walk a path of salvation.
As a result, my worth became a status I had to earn. So I threw myself into worth-earning, and became a consummate self-improver.
There was a consequence, though. I learned to see myself as inherently wrong.
If I could just fix myself, I’d be OK. I even defined others’ worth by how hard I thought they worked on themselves. My relationships became rehabilitation projects, which was patently unfair to both of us.
With all the time I invested in self-improvement, I learned to court my problems. Brokenness became a lover. Because as long as I was wounded, I could stay in the self-improvement club, and on the path to salvation.
But for me, that path went nowhere. It was like shoveling a bottomless pile of coal. If there was always something to fix, I’d never be OK. And I had to be OK.
Then I was offered a radical idea: maybe I already was OK.
Holy crap! That was a scary notion. But it had teeth.
The learning didn’t stop. The lessons, though, were not about solving problems, but about claiming them. Choosing my imperfect experience liberated me from being wrong. I was also free to be wrong if I actually was. No problem.
Worth is not a prize to be earned.
Worth is knowing you’re free to let life express itself through you, just as you are.
The flavor of you is exquisite.