When, at seven, I hand-delivered a love note to the neighboring high school boy and was met with snickers and condescending eyes, I knew.
When, at eleven, a girl in our neighborhood followed me home, taunting me with words about how I walked, how my body was misshaped, I knew.
When, at thirteen, rocks were thrown at my house with hate notes and cruel messages were written on our sidewalk, I knew.
When, at twenty-seven, words to help were empty promises and hands to hold were few and far between, I knew.
Today, anytime my soul grows weary, this is the wound that speaks to my depths, loud and clear: You are alone.
I wrestle those words every few months, sometimes every few days. Because, well, life can seem so lonely. We can get so busy or so focused on plowing ahead, that we forgot to lift our heads and extend a hand.
We forget that what the world needs is not our productivity or our fabulous physiques or our all-organic five star meals. We need each other.We need hearts and hands, something to hold. Something to remind us that, despite the whispers, we are not alone.
Maybe I need to hear this message more often than the average person. I probably do. But I know, at some point, we all need to know this: You are not alone.
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