Last time you lovelies saw me talking about my past, I was excusing it and desperately fighting to move on from it.
I’ve spent all my days encased in a state of anger and hate towards all the bullies who hurt me, all the friends who betrayed me, and basically all of the pain I’ve been through.
“I don’t want it,” I’ve screamed inside my head many a time. “This isn’t me,” I’d insist to myself after any period of introspection.
But I should want it and it is me. My experiences have made me who I am: they’ve made me wiser, — more prudent and more complex — stronger, — more independent and more daring — and kinder — more accepting and more caring.
Alienating my past is like being a butterfly who’s ashamed of its metamorphosis. Disgusted by the sticky tendrils of the cocoon, embarrassed by the seemingly never-ending struggle for survival, and disenchanted by the wings it grew.
I’m not living like that anymore. I’m going to make the most of the lessons I’ve learned without letting them weigh me down. Because I was built to fly.