Disenchanted

This was intended to be a newsletter for the end of April, but I never published it. Though I’m not in the same space mentally and emotionally, I still believe this is an important message.

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Removing the rose-colored glasses.

It’s a turn of phrase that, in my mind, is disingenuous. It signifies a soft, careful taking away; it’s calm, even rational.

In my experience, you don’t remove rose-colored glasses, you have them ripped off of you. 

People will disappoint. But there’s something incredibly jarring about experiencing that disappointment from someone you’ve held in high regard.

Maybe that’s unfair. After all, they most likely didn’t ask to be viewed through the hazy, romantic lens that you put them under. 

Still though, even when it’s no one's fault - it’s difficult. 

I feel like my mind is going in a million different directions right now, and I’m not entirely sure where to land. I have so many things racing through my brain, and burdening my heart.

I wanted this newsletter to be about the disenchantment that comes when we remove those glasses, and the compassion we ought to have for the humanness of others and ourselves. 

But to be perfectly honest, I don’t have it in me. Not right now.

I feel as though the past couple of months have been an excruciating erasure of my rose-colored glasses, and the process has left me with bruises.

So I’m choosing to rest.

Maybe choosing is giving myself too much credit.

But I know, from experience, that emotional pain and physical pain are intertwined; that my head and my heart are only capable of holding so much at once; and that rest is an intentional and radical necessity.

I’m sorry that you’ve been disappointed and let down.

I’m sorry that someone has broken your heart.

I’m sorry that sometimes your head gets so full, it feels too heavy to hold upright.

I’m sorry that seasons of change often come with a push and pull to your body and emotions.

I want you to know that not only is it okay to prioritize yourself and your health, it’s vital. We serve others well when we are healthy, when we have enough to give. 

When we are lacking, it’s okay to say so. It’s okay to cry out, and ask for help. 

My prayer is that you will always have that call answered.

Writing this is difficult. Even now, I’m editing myself in my head, telling myself that I don’t have a right to feel so stretched and drained. Because not only have I been through worse, but there are people in this very moment that are experiencing suffering that I will never know.

Perspective is good. It’s important. But it doesn’t mean that we don’t have the right to our own feelings, our own experience.

So I’m practicing what I preach. 

I’m struggling, and I don’t have it in me to pretend I’m not. More and more, I don’t want to. Because I do believe in the beauty of imperfection and the value of vulnerability.