The weaker I get, the less I think about what I want to have, and the more I think about what I want my legacy to be.
With all the moving, I have never had a place to call home. I want a home, but more than that I want to be home. Home is more than ownership of a piece of dirt. Home is that sense of belonging; I have never really felt like I belonged anywhere.
There was a time I thought when I grew up, all that would change. If I could just get out on my own, I could have the stability I was missing. Maybe in some very limited way that is true, but it is also not that simple.
Getting out does not automatically solve the problem. Does my sense of belonging stem purely from external acceptance or does it also come from my own acceptance of myself. If I don’t believe I am acceptable, I will project timidity and withdraw at the first sign if resistance.
Yes, I have been deeply wounded. Yes, I am scared. Yes, there are times I would very much like to run for the hills, but what would be my legacy then?
I want to be remembered for the strength with which I faced the hard road I have walked. I want people, when they look back at my life, to say “She gave it her all. She cared when no one else would. She changed my life.”
If I can have that, all the pain I have endured will have been worth it.
