Give me a minute

One of the many lies Jerk Brain tells is that I am a burden on the people who love and care about me, my mere existence an inconvenience of epic proportions. At the same time, in a cruel and clever twist, my primary love language—regardless of whether the relationship is platonic or romantic—is acts of service. In other words, I feel the most loved when someone intentionally does something kind for me that they don’t have to do. Running a close second is quality time.

As I reflect on the last two weeks, I’m struck by just how much folks put themselves out for me. It’s a toss up as to which is more unpleasant, driving someone from the airport to the Melbourne CBD during rush hour or removing your own kidney with a dull spoon. The struggle is real.

Busy people made heaps of time for me. Real time, quality time. They opened their homes to me; they met up at my favorite places. They let me pet their dogs and snuggle their babies.

As someone who has spent so much of my life discounting my worth, it is affirming. Hovering on the perimeter, I recognize the specter of Jerk Brain. The tinge of awkwardness and uncertainty. Allowing myself to believe in the authenticity of others’ care for me is a measure of growth that once seemed out of reach.

I feel very loved. I feel it in my bones.


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