I used to be so afraid of being seen,
so afraid to be identified or identifiable in a crowd.
I wanted to crouch down onto my knees and disappear so often,
praying that no one would notice me,
that I wouldn’t inspire anyone to make a comment about me or to me.
It was truly my worst nightmare to stand out.
deep inside, I really wanted to be seen.
How fucked up is that.
Wanting the thing I so hid from.
Or rather, repelling (or trying to repel) the thing I so desired.
I really did want to be special.
A little wild, a little weird.
Or a lot weird lol.
I knew I was, all those things, deep inside.
I knew I was my own Me.
But I didn’t really believe it.
I didn’t really believe it even though it was the ONE thing I wanted to believe about me.
Over the years, as I did my inner work, as I shed the layers and layers of me that I thought was me, I came to realize…
I am the crazy, the wild, the “off”, the noticeable, the identifiable person I had so despised AND yearned to be.
I listened to my heart.
I listened to my soul.
I longed for nothing more than the truth and honesty of Me to be known to me.
I was at a point in my life where how I looked, appeared, seemed to others, to the world began to feel dusty, old, antiquated, irrelevant, dry.
It didn’t feel as real as what I was discovering within the recesses of my being.
I kept sniff sniff sniffing for the ‘real’, the ‘raw’, the true, the me-ness of me.
At some point, I accepted the fact that how I look and am perceived may actually not matter in life.
Like, at all.
Like, you know?
It was a truth I tried on, in my pursuit of me, of God, of Love.
It made so much sense.
What did it mean to fit in?
What did it mean to fly under the radar?
To not be seen as striking or too in-your-face?
What did it mean to purposefully not create waves?
What did it mean to live on the surface on me?
What did it mean to appear normal, acceptable?
And what did it mean to be crazy?
What did it mean to not make sense to people?
To those closest to us?
To those who love us?
What did it mean to run wild, run free even from my own understanding of truth and me?
What did it mean if I could not reconcile either side?
What happened then?
Who was I then?
What did I choose?
How did I want to live my life?
Those questions ran through my head in regular procession, a parade of my inquisitiveness, my curiosity, but mostly, a deep hunger for what it means to live.
Not exist, not just be alive, but LIVE.
What did that mean???
How did I hold my craziness and my desire to be accepted, to not be judged, to live comfortably, allowing others to live ‘comfortably’ too.
There was no one moment or answer that addressed this ponderance.
But after these years coming continuously coming home to me, I realized, I know, I believe, I *get* that being a little crazy – or a lot lol – feels more real, more true, more ME than anything else.
Being misunderstood, pegged to be a certain way, labelled, etc feels alright, when I know in my heart of hearts, that I am with me,
that I see me,
that I trust me.
It feels quite acceptable to be unacceptable, standing solid within me, knowing I am in 100% integrity with me, my desires, my beliefs.
My alignment with me has become THE driving factor of everything in my life.
What that looks like constantly changes, but the alignment with me, which only *I* know anything about, doesn’t.
It is the north star.
Everything that flows from that place can look however it wants to look.
And really, it *will* look however the perceiver chooses to see it.
But if I’m good with me, then what the problem is?
And… is there even a problem?
As I chose and chose and chose and chose myself again and again, validating my desires, my hopes, my dreams,
I realized there really actually was no opposition to who I desired to be and how I showed up in the world.
The fear that I would be judged, labelled, rejected for being all of me dissipated…
as the truth vested in me became larger, realer, more deeply integrated and embodied, more natural to me,
I became so engulfed, engrossed, encapsulated by the depth of me, my connection to God, Spirit, universe,
that it didn’t really matter, at a certain point, who the fuck people thought I was.
I began to feel freedom within me, first just between me and me, me and God.
And that freedom was so good, I kept drinking of it, living in it, trusting it, that I began to allow it to spill over into my life,
into my relationships,
into my physical presence in the world,
into my work/job,
into my conversations.
I allowed myself to say the things that I would have turned over in my head again and again in the past, wondering if it was appropriate, understandable, etc.
I allowed myself to be however I felt like being.
I allowed myself to dance in the parking lot on the way to my car.
I allowed myself to yell a compliment from across the street if I desired.
I allowed myself to be a participant of PDA with my partner.
God, I had so much judgment for PDA in the past hahah.
I allowed myself to just.BE.
I allowed everything about me,
all the nonsensical parts of me,
all the non-conforming aspects of me,
all the levels of me that I discovered within, that I had written off as weird because I never saw it expressed in the world,
I allowed it ALL.
I not only allowed it – I chose it.
Because being crazy, I’ve found, is better than making sense to the world.
I embrace it, all the weird, all the Me, all the truth inside.
I get that no one might get it.
And ironically, my people DO.
You’re probably one of them, if you’re reading this far ha!
I love you.
In all ways, always, I love all of you, all of your crazy, all of your weird.
I hope to God and back that you live it all.