I never imagined that it would be this hard for me write about what has been happening in my life the last month. I spent the bulk of my 20’s writing journal entry after journal entry, blog after blog, about the very same thing that I am struggling to write about today. Maybe it is growth? I’m sure it’s nothing but fear, but I will give myself the benefit of the doubt and pretend that it is growth. Anais Nin once wrote that “we write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.” And I believe this to be nothing but true. Writing has helped me learn how to better understand myself, my actions, and the actions of others. In fact, I strongly believe that keeping this blog last year helped me to grow into the person I am today. Last year was a rough one, and I learned a lot about loving myself and what it takes to be fearless by writing things out. There have been many times in my life that I have thought to myself, “I can’t wait to write about this. THIS is going to be some great stuff.” But the last month, I have found myself wanting to do nothing but sit in the experience and let myself relish in the beauty of life as it has started to unfold.

I’ve finally had some free time this week and I have found myself try to get some words out surrounding the magic of what I’ve been experiencing this month, but it’s been so hard. What if I write these things out and then it ends up falling apart? What if I write it all out and it feels like a poorly written Danielle Steele chapter, instead of a girl who is experiencing a very important new chapter of her life? I’ve been experiencing so much love lately that I am also experiencing all the fears. It takes so much work to not feed the fears; to not let the fear be what grabs hold of my heart when I find myself wanting to open up and let love and light in.

What if I’m not enough? What if being in a relationship is the hardest thing I’ve ever done? What if letting go of being single means letting go of me? What if my sister doesn’t like him? What if? Oh, what if? I find myself wanting to curl up in a ball and not let things run their course instead of opening up to the beauty of finally being comfortable enough in my own skin to let someone in.

When you have spent your entire life chasing after something as elusive as romance, it’s hard to believe that it’s real when it’s right in front of your face asking for you to be open to accepting it’s merits. But I want so much to be open to it. And I’m glad that finding the words to write about what’s happening is difficult, because it’s allowed me space to think about the little things that have been making me so happy the last few weeks.

His hands. Our talks of the future.

It feels really great to open slowly, but surely, to this. These small victories of letting him in, after fighting so hard to keep him out. I didn’t realize that in trying to protect myself from anything bad happening, I was also ensuring that nothing much good happened either.

Maybe it’s not forever, maybe it is. Maybe we will destroy each other, piece by piece, only to have to rebuild ourselves again. Or maybe we will build a life together like the one I have always dreamed I would find. Maybe we’ll spend Saturday mornings at the Farmer’s Market in Lake Merritt and Saturday nights filled with movies and miso soup. And maybe I’ll let him sleep in on Sundays. Maybe.

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