#tinyandfearless

We’ve shared this space since I was a little girl. You moved into every corner of my mind when I was only eight. You wasted no time making yourself at home. I know you well, and you know me, down to my core. At times, I’ve heard your voice louder than any other. Your quivering screech sounded to me like the hush of a perpetual white noise.

You wrote your name on things that do not belong to you – my heartbeat, my breathing, my safe places and relationships.

In peaceful moments, you’ve put your nails to chalkboard and with all your weight pressed in.

You prod and probe me. “Does this hurt? Dwell on it.” “Are you disturbed? Soak in it.” “Failure.” “Unloveable.” “They’re better than you.” “You take up space.” “Shrink. Shrink.” “Skinnier.” “Quieter.” “Less of you.” “Be alone.” “Don’t speak.”

You are a jealous friend, constantly craving all of the attention I have to give. Day in and day out you lure my eyes to you, distracting me from the person in front of me, the situation at hand, my abilities, my future, and The Cross.

You are an invasive species. You feed upon me, and in my own home. You flare up, irritate, and swell. You spread like fungus, nauseate, and infect memories I once cherished.

You are an abusive partner. I have never let anyone talk to me the way that you do. I have cowered under your hand. You have choked me, nearly to my death, but your grip around my neck left no bruises. My family and friends worry, and I can hardly believe the words they say as they attempt to shake sense into my body.

I am learning that you are unable to be ignored. Any proximity to you and I will make you an idol. I was made to worship, but you are all that is in my line of sight. And I have grown tired of watching you destroy what I create, desire, and build up. I don’t want to live in fear of being left alone with you anymore.

This is not a final warning, and I won’t leave another note to tell you that we are no longer on speaking terms.

This is an eviction notice.

Keep your grimy little hands off of everything I love on your way out,

For the first time in my life, on the back of his bike, I thought, “the suburbs someday wouldn’t really be so bad.” Two point five kids, turbo tax, a 401K and the culdesac house, I think, sound like a nightmare until you’re holding onto the right person.

Love isn’t someone who likes everything you like or a person who meets all your expectations. Love certainly isn’t the person who most strained your heart. Love is the distance between how far you reached and God’s plan for you of more. Love is waking up every day knowing you and today will keep getting better. Love is knowing you will always have a home.

“Love is like… third grade.”

I laughed because I remember the third grade. I remember when the grown man sitting across from me, facing inward on the couch, punched me in the gut on the school bus. I remember he did it because I sat next to the girl he had a crush on.

“A third grade class has every dynamic that exists in the real world. Laura, it’s simple. Don’t throw a whole crumpled sheet of paper back at the girl tossing spit wads your way. Just brush them off your desk.”

He gave me advice in elementary school metaphors, and he told me his ten year plan. I thought about all the time we’ve known each other. We were eight years old when we met, but in about four months he’ll brew homemade beer for my twenty first birthday.

I told him not to be the playground bully who chases a girl because he secretly likes her.

“She’ll get tired of being tormented eventually. When recess ends, be who she chooses to sit next to in class.”

“What if she doesn’t want to because I eat paste?”

“At least you don’t put it in her hair.”

He told me I make megaphones out of flies. I overthink and I lose heart and I build up resentment over things I’d be better off ignoring. And I said he should keep being the nice guy. It’ll pay off someday. And, yeah, it is scary to bend until you break, but people are worth the risk. People are the only thing worth the risk.

In third grade, my best friend Darby fell from the monkey bars into the arms of Tristan, the new student. Our whole class talked about his perfectly timed catch as if nothing more romantic had ever occurred among eight year olds. Third grade happened prior to promposals, engagements, and the storybook weddings flooding our news feeds, but I think we had the same flawed mindset then that we have now.

Love is not about drama, mystery, or some grandiose act of affection. It’s not about an event or a happenstance or being in the right place at the right time.

Love is who you sit next to when given a choice. Love is whose pencil you get up to sharpen, who you share your lunchbox with, and who you walk down the hallway beside every day.

Love is who makes going out of your way the greatest honor of your life and who turns the ordinary things into the note-worthy parts of your day.

In agreement, we decided, “it’s who you buy tissues for.”

We marveled at how the real, tangible people that we could have never made up are better than our dream human. The people we love most make any other option and anyone prior pale in comparison.

“He waves at me when he brushes his teeth, and sometimes I think, ‘if I end up with someone else — say five years from now — and he’s just as tall and tattooed, but he doesn’t wave at me when he brushes his teeth, I’ll feel like something is missing.’”

It scares me that I can’t take a sneak peak into my future. I don’t know how anything will turn out. I know that my however-many-year plan really doesn’t matter. Before my thirty fourth birthday I could be telling the same friend “we were just babies then. We didn’t know anything. Can you believe it?”

I do know I want to be someone who makes people feel that they’re enough — that they’re accepted. I want people to know their bravery mattered. I want to be someone who chooses people and I want to be the one who sticks around.

We had a conversation at lunch about death. Gruesome, I know.

“She’s only 20, and I don’t know how long she has left.”

One thought circled my mind.

“Her parents.”

I shared another anecdote about a 25 year old — a friend of a friend — who died a few weeks ago.

“It could happen any time.”

And then I went to park my car at school, took the elevator, and started to walk across the street.

This is going to sound shocking and dramatic, so let me go ahead and tell you. I’m fine.

But I was hit by a car. She was turning, and I had right of way, and she just didn’t stop.

She could’ve been going faster. I could’ve hit my head. I could’ve not walked away.

I picked myself up, grabbed my shattered phone, and like nothing had happened, I sat in my statistics class. I stared at the board and I thought “I didn’t handle that well.”

It’s somehow so embarrassing, to be the girl that got hit by a car, but was in class on time. My mom called halfway through. Her voice shaky and her tone concerned. “Go to a doctor. I want to know for a fact that you’re ok.”

I can’t imagine having a kid. I can’t imagine sending a part of me — the most precious part of me — out into the world to just hope everything goes right.

Because it could go wrong. Anyone could take a quick turn. Anyone could fall down the stairs. There are countless diseases that can infect someone you love.

I don’t mean to be dark, only honest. There is a lot of bravery in loving someone. You can give someone your whole heart, you can hope mightily, and dream boldly, and you can get hurt.

Much more terrifying than getting hit by a car is thinking of someone I love getting hit by a car. The first people I talked to, the couple of phone calls, those that drove me to the doctor. How long do I have with them? How could it ever be long enough?

“But there’s another way. To let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen; to love with our whole hearts, even though there’s no guarantee; to believe that we’re enough. Because when we work from a place that says, ‘I’m enough,’ then we stop screaming and we start listening, we’re kinder and gentler to the people around us and we’re kinder and gentler to ourselves.” (Brene Brown)

There’s no guarantee. To love is to love anyways. Give your whole heart anyways. Be kinder and be gentler, even though the world is cruel and quick and can knock you to the asphalt.

Get up and brush yourself off. Someone means something to you, and they may not know. People should understand the impact they’ve had on you. Don’t walk away from moments where love is exchanged as if nothing happened. Don’t carry the weight of a pocketbook stuffed with letters you’re too afraid to send. Don’t find yourself sitting in regret, thinking “I didn’t handle that well.”

Be honest about how you’re feeling. Let people take care of you. Don’t have bad days. Have bold days. Fight for people. Help others stand when they’re hurt. Push yourself for people. Push people for themselves.