We were not born whole; we were born new, and each life experience coated us with another layer. These layers protected us like armor, but they also covered us to the point where we no longer could feel. That was the balance: to open up to the experiences, to strategically place the layers, but to leave the heart open. The heart had to be sent into the front lines every day, naked, unarmed, willing to take fire. That was the only way to live. With risk. On the cusp of dying.

So long as I was pursuing my passion, I would always find courage. I would be restored. My history of silence didn’t have to be my future.

You’ve gotta believe that the split second that changed your life—the brief moment that took your leg and bruised your melon—can’t be the defining moment of your life. It was just an instant, a flash. Just one second out of millions of seconds. It doesn’t get to own you.

Neruda poem that talked about ‘the light of hidden flowers.’ It’s easy to believe in people when they have it all together on the outside. It’s way cooler to believe in them when what they have is still a little buried.

Maybe heartache was more normal than the absence of it.