These hands used to be like an art—majestic masterpiece of life. This vessel was once a canvas to decorate and abuse; now, it is dressed in plain clothes and and stained with coffee grounds.
Once upon a time, a young girl yearned for adventure and scoffed at romance. She declared herself an introvert, content despite her misfortunes. She professed proudly that she would live without a single regret, finding lessons instead from life's tragedies.
That little girl grew up. She discovered heartbreak. She realized her privilege. Then, she surrendered it all in the sudden, warm embrace of a handsome gentleman.
Turned woman, that girl has discovered much and ventured plenty. Her old experiments have been satisfied for now, and the new curiosities trickle in. The grandest quest of all has taken hold of her life: motherhood.
The one who once lived in disbelief of romance somehow lucked into the very heart of it. From that center, the most wonderful and treacherous journey began.
But now, these hands are scarred and calloused. This vessel is worn and exhausted. Blood stained lips struggle to smile, these hands struggle to slow down. Though she is no longer beaten by others, she relentlessly assaults herself.
The little woman-girl still finds herself crouched in the trenches, desperately defending a war she cannot accept is over. For her, it is still raging. Deep scar tissue stretches and aches, she cannot abandon her post. Who knows when an enemy might decide to return? Perhaps they are still there, hunched over their weapons, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—the moment her guard drops and she crawls into the daylight.
When everyone tells you the storm has passed, that it is time to come away and relax, how do you trust their changing faces? How can they expect you to put your hand over the fire and trust that, this time, it will not burn?
I find myself still waging wars, neglecting the burns and bruising of my own heart. I find myself frozen in place.
How do I leave this place? Where does the battlefront give way to mowed lawns and gleeful parades of children? I have kept myself in these fields. Why?
I am a coward. I wear a thick, brave facade as my armor and carry a cache of overthought to prove my righteousness. I am too weak to move, too afraid to lay down my arms.
A woman should make art, not war. Yet it is only my blood that spills, and rage does not look good on a lady like me.
I have waged war on myself. The only way out is surrender—to myself, for the freedom of my being and the love for my family.
These hands used to paint and play guitar. These soft hands would once hold you gently and soothe you. Now, I only want to grasp too tightly, fearing that you too, might find yourself in a battle that I cannot see.
The greatest mistake is to think you can avoid it. War will find you on your path some fine day. How will you choose to fight? I only hope you know when your war has finally been won.