I have a tattoo on my lower abdomen. It's the word "faith" encircled with an infinity symbol. I got it because I wanted a reminder to always have faith. I got it on my lower abdomen because I figured in times of needing faith, I would lower my head in sadness or despair, and I would see my tattoo, or at least the spot where the tattoo is. I don't generally walk around with my lower abdomen uncovered. I've given birth to three children. Nuff said. But you get what I mean. That tattoo is always there when I need it. But the actual faith itself? No so much. See, faith means trust. They are intrinsically linked. You can't have one without the other. And trust is not an area where I excel.
To be honest, I kinda suck at the whole trust concept. Trust scares the shit out of me. It makes my brain just shut down. Most of the time, I intentionally do not trust people. I especially do not trust myself. Years of not doing what I set out to do has trained me to believe I will sabotage myself. The voice in the back of my head saying "no, you won't. You won't do it. You'll screw it up for yourself." I know that this is the voice of fear. And that voice is one of the few things I do trust. I trust that voice because its job is to keep me safe. The other voice leads to risk, hope, and vulnerability. I don't trust that voice. I don't trust that voice because risk, hope, and vulnerability lead to one of two things. One, I will not get what I want and it will hurt. Or two, I will get more than I ever imagined possible. I'm not sure which option is scarier. So I choose to follow the first voice. The fear voice. The one that cautions me against anything that might potentially hurt. It seems safer that way.
Ironically, I used to believe the opposite of that. I used to be the girl who could and did accomplish anything she set out to do. I got on a plane and flew to France, on my own. Did I know the language? Sort of. Did i know what was going to happen on this trip? Not really. Did I care? Nope. I got on another plane and flew to Ireland. Also on my own. Did I know anyone waiting for me at the other end? Nope. Did I have a place to stay? For about a week, yes. After that, I trusted someone was working it out for me. I wasn't worried. And yes, I was taken care of. I always had a place to stay. I always had plenty to eat. I was always absolutely fine. But then I became an adult, and I went out into the world on my own. And at some point, I stopped feeling so sure that I would always be absolutely fine. I don't know what happened. But somewhere along the line, I decided I needed to protect myself. I decided that trust was a dangerous concept.
If you have ever been hurt by life, and we all have, then you know what I mean. Trust can be very scary indeed. Terrifying, even. The desire to put a protective barrier around your heart is natural. But with trust comes many beautiful things, too. Strength. Connection. Intimacy. When you refuse to trust, you close yourself off to the possibility of the beautiful things, too. I need to learn to trust. I am starting with trusting myself. Relaxing the protective grip on my heart and soul. Letting go. Falling backwards with ease, knowing with absolute certainty that I will be caught. Every time. Even if I am the one to catch myself. Trust is soft. Open. It is bits of your soul leaping out into the world. It is placing your heart into the hands of another. No reservations. Knowing it will all be okay, even if it all falls apart. It is jumping on a trampoline, knowing that every time you land, you will be bounced back up.
I am so glad you are here! Welcome to my blog. This is your space, too. My name is Amy, and I am no stranger to the ups and downs of life. Join me as we search for beauty, authenticity, tell our truth, and hold space for each other in the messiness of life.