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This is the last thing I want to think of. Every thought of Brock hurts.
But there it is, playing in my head: his face, his “on” smile—the one he gives to audiences, interviewers, and the public. ‘When you think you have nothing left, that’s when things get really good. That’s when you push through and find out what you’re capable of. You find parts of yourself you never had to use before.’
I have nothing left, I think, with my eyes still closed.
That doesn’t feel right.
Not at all.
There is a strength in me I’ve never used before. I’ve never had to. I’ve never felt this empty or this lost.
But right now, reaching for that strength is the only thing I can do. So, I do. I reach down into the depths of my being. I search for some part of me that can deal with everything going on in my life.
I think about my grandmother, and her smile. Her laugh. I remember how she looked at the world and noticed the sweet things. My mind turns to my mother, and all the love she gave me over the years. The hugs, the comfort, the songs she sang. My aunts, too, with their recipe books and gardening gloves.
These women in my life, they had to do battle at times. Life can be hard. They kept right on giving love.
Maybe it’s possible I’m not empty. Maybe I’m stronger than I know.
Miraculously… magically… something inside of me shifts.
The doubts echoing in my mind quiet down. They’re replaced by a sensation of well-being. Is this what confidence feels like? Assertiveness? I don’t know. All I know is I feel much more capable than when I sat down in this chair moments ago.
Worthy, too.
Worthy of loving myself and worthy of giving love to the world.
When my eyes open, it feels like I’m looking at a new scene.
The colors around me look brighter. The red walls are vibrant, alive, beautiful just for me. Steam curls up off my cup, carrying the delicious milky-sweet scent of the black tea. The China tea cup, with its delicate rim, is a gift… and I am worth it.
I finish my tea, grateful for the taste and feel of warmth on my tongue. I gaze out at the view as I polish off the fresh-baked scone. Then, I get to my feet.
When I find my phone, I don’t hesitate. I dial Clay.
He sounds sleepy when he answers.
But I’m not groggy or fuzzy-headed, like him, Not at all. My voice sounds clearer to my own ears than it has in a long time—maybe ever. “Clay, I need you to meet me at the Blue Moose Coffee Shop in an hour. We have to talk.”
“Hrmph… gack.”
“I’m going to need you to use your words, sleepyhead.”
“Late night gaming… maybe later… like two or something?”
“Be there in one hour.” I sound like a freaking school teacher.
Some part of me—a hidden, pushed-down part—is coming to life. She’s bold. She knows what she wants. She is a queen.
Sometimes, she even gives orders. Even to her baby-faced, sweet-as-pie, sensitive brother.
This part of me has been quiet for so long. Since my childhood. For years and years, I’ve been compliant and agreeable. I’ve been humble. I’ve been shy.
And all the while, this part of me slumbered.
Not anymore.
I didn’t sleep great last night, but maybe there was a touch of magic in that tea cup, like my grandmother promised, in addition to the caffeine, because right now I feel wide awake.
