There is only one version of me.
I am the only me that ever was, is, and will be.
So, who or what can tell me who or what I am?
Who defines what is good or right or best for me?
I have lived long enough – I would almost say too long, but I believe in divine timing – buying into other people’s ideas of good and right for me.
I have spent enough time buying into the idea that others know best for me.
I’m done buying into other people’s comfort.
I’m done paying for my betrayal to myself.
No one has ever been telling me I’m wrong.
No one has oppressed me, suppressed me, depressed me.
I’ve been buying into the whole sham.
Living like a beggar in my own skin, my own air, my own magnificence.
I’ll tell you what.
For my remembering of my worthiness, my truth, my gorgeous beingness.
Because that is what it is.
That is motherfucking what I am.
And that is what you are –
If you choose to believe.
Pure perfection incarnate.
That is what we are.
Whole and goddamn complete.