Beginning again feels like a visceral “NO FREAKING WAY” in your guts. Until it doesn’t. Until you realize you’ve actually already begun. Until you look back and realize you’re no longer where you were.
Beginning again feels like grasping along a dark corridor, tentatively making your way down the staircase, searching with your toes, unsure of where the next step lies.
Beginning again feels foolhardy, silly, embarrassing, risky. It feels like doing something wrong. Like being bad.
Beginning again feels like fear; like intentionally exposing yourself to the very thing that caused your most intense devastation.
Beginning again feels unfaithful. When you’ve been so committed, so intent on the health of your union, so singularly focused on making it work–but then it doesn’t–it can take a while for your mind, body, and soul to understand that you are a free agent. You don’t owe anyone your fidelity. You can make eye contact, flirt back, return the call.
Beginning again feels like changing the radio station; realizing that no one is forcing you to listen to this song you hate. It feels like tuning into hope and goodness instead of listening to the soundtrack of past trauma and experiences.
Beginning again feels like trying to find all the reasons why this is a terrible idea. But coming up short.
Beginning again is recognizing that you’re feeling content and happy. And then not trusting those feelings because you’ve had them before and look at what happened.
Beginning again feels exhilarating; awkward and adolescent in all the best ways. It feels youthful and fun. It feels a teeny bit reckless.
Beginning again is brave and necessary; especially for the connectors, the lovers, the ‘relators’ who need others…even when they’ve said they’ll never do this again. They’ll never depend on anyone again. That they would rather be alone.
Beginning again is realizing that your heart is still very much alive and beating. It is soft and vulnerable. Tenuous, but curious. Nervous, but longing.
Beginning again feels like allowing the walls around your heart to be disassembled, brick by brick, and carefully peering out from your safe tower to see what might lie beyond.
Beginning again feels like the part where you willingly seat and strap yourself into a roller coaster car, and begin the ascent of the first massive incline. And you are filled with regret, and ask yourself “what the hell have I done here?” and “why did I think this was a good idea?”
Beginning again feels like inviting another to see you in your weakness; to really know you, to care for you. It is telling your bravado to be quiet, and insisting that your pride lay down and rest, and then permitting someone to do for you what you’ve always had to do for yourself.
Beginning again feels like allowing affection to seep into your dry soil, moistening and nourishing, instead of tipping it off the top and pouring it all away before it has a chance to absorb.
Beginning again feels like sharing a story, sharing life, walking with a friend. It requires admitting to yourself that it’s nice to have someone to chat with, and realizing you smile a bit when their name shows up on your phone.
Beginning again doesn’t mean a promise, or a sure thing, or permanence. It means that you’re willing to take a step, and then another, and then another. You can’t know if it’s a short walk down the street, a more significant hike, or a destination far on the horizon. But you decide to put your sneakers on and find out.