I told my dad about my relationship with Jolie.
3 months ago.
A little over 3 months ago.
On the way to the airport,
right before I left for a work trip for 10 days.
I didn’t plan to make it seem like I was running away after dropping the bomb on him.
It just happened that way.
But maybe I did plan it so I would be away for some days after telling him.
I probably did.
I was shaky,
No, I was certain.
I was certain that I would say it.
That I have to say it.
Not because I have to.
But because it’s going to be said.
I was uncertain of my delivery,
of my strength,
But I was certain of my freedom in truth,
of my integrity.
It was an expensive gift to myself,
but not more expensive than holding onto it within.
It felt like uncharted territory,
not really knowing where I was stepping,
not really knowing where I was going to land…
yet knowing exactly where I was stepping,
and where I was going to land.
Does any of this make sense?
As the words tumbled out,
lightness settled in,
expansion flooded within.
As if the words had been taking up too much space,
and the words that had stifled me,
now gave me breath.
What a difference it makes,
no longer inside.
My dad wasn’t pleased.
He felt what he felt about it.
And when I came back from the trip,
we sat down and talked a bit.
And he was more clear about what he felt.
And that was okay.
His displeasure pales in comparison to the freedom of being me.
The life and love I choose,
the openness of my heart,
the adventure of my decision.
My discomfort around his displeasure –
yes, I do feel occasionally uncomfortable with his discomfort –
wanes in the face of a beautiful partnership,
full of fun,
I know, whatever comes,
And whatever that comes and whatever that happens
will come and happen in generous response to my loyalty,
reverence for myself.
I choose me.
I choose my heart,
I trust he will be fine.
I trust he is fine.
I trust myself.
I trust God.
I trust the universe.