Going through my old bedroom felt like a timewarp.

A perplexing time travel experience where I returned to find my past self.
It was as if the remnants of this bedroom were the debris from the explosion - an explosion that I somehow managed to rescue myself from.

And here I was, almost done with my examination of ground zero - a sad but crystallizing experience.
I am more than a survivor.
I have become an archaeologist of a battlefield.
I finally feel more distant from the tragedy, and am armed with clearer answers. I no longer have to respond with, “I don’t know how, I don’t know why”.
For a long time, my vulnerability was being exploited by a number of different characters surrounding me. But it was this very therapy session that stopped me from romanticizing vulnerability any further.

Over the years I learned that vulnerability was merely a tool for connection. This realization didn’t make vulnerability less special, but it did make me more discerning. After all, vulnerability is a door that can let in love, yet risk shame and rejection sneaking in instead.
Gradually, I became conscious that vulnerability was not the end-goal although it was part of the process. I became conscious that to truly show up, I needed to let go of my identity, I needed to deal with the parts of myself which held me back. It was my responsibility to recover.
I owed it to myself - to be gentle, kind and humble - to me and for me.
I fold the white shirts into neat little rectangles. I could see myself wearing these again.
Click on the Door to Exit