broken whole

Only when I’m broken do I feel whole.

That solitary sentence was in my draft folder, as if I had thought of something brilliant and new. As if I could come back and expound on it, turning it into some meaningful post. Broadening my horizons, and maybe yours.

Only when I’m broken do I feel whole.

Is that statement even true? Today, as I sit here contemplating my life, my choices, my reactions, my emotions – is that statement still honest?

I feel a little broken. These months have taken their toll on me. This broken that I feel now, isn’t making me whole. This broken is making me feel… Overwhelmed, helpless, invisible, forgotten, and many other things. In fact instead of feeling whole, I feel fractured and scattered. I’m constantly trying to scoop up enough scraps to hold a little bit of me together.

So my first instinct is to look at that sentence and laugh, thinking the girl that wrote that was delusional. Being broken feels soulless.

Only when I’m broken do I feel whole.

But as I read it again and again, and I say it out loud, I remember. There is a broken that does make me feel whole. The broken, where all my defenses and walls have been obliterated. The point where I am so lost and stripped of all thought – no nagging voices of jiggling thighs, or a marked stomach… No wondering if I’m too loud, no doubt, no questions, no worries, no child issues. That broken where there is nothing but truth and love and light and sensation. That broken down state where tears may flow, but they are not sad or scared. The kind of broken where there is only Sir and some weird magnetic connection. The kind of broken that strips away everything so that I can be rebuilt to His liking. That kind of broken sure as fuck makes me whole. That kind of broken brings an acceptance and a peace that I cannot find anywhere else.

Only when I’m broken do I feel whole.

That is my truth.
Happy Friday, y’all! Homecoming here in my land… It’s a whole thing.


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