I’m done with pretending that I have it all figured out.

Because I don’t.

I’m too young to know the difference between wisdom and impulsiveness, as I still leap before I look.

I’m too old to know the merit of being selfish for selfish sake: I give too freely, and much too often.

I’m too sweet to bleed my hardships across the page even though I know you’ll have sympathy, and sigh with relief, saying, “I’m glad that I’m not the only one.”

I’m too feisty not to challenge the status quo, but I’m slowly learning the fine art of holding my words before I speak.

I’m too honest not to say that I am sorry—please forgive me—and that I’ve got the biggest heart in the world.

I’m too much of a writer not to sit in a cafe, and not write, but observe first, watching the passersby caught up in the snapshots of the ordinary.

I’m done with imagining that I’ll figure out this thing called life because I know it’s meant to be lived, not contemplated.

I’m too much of a human not to fall in love with the love we all hold in our hearts—that potential to expand beyond ourselves.

I’m too much of a creative guide not to ask you, “why,” and then, “why not,” so “let’s go explore those wild spaces within your soul.”

I’m too much of a woman, and I am fine with that because those who love me—truly know me—understand that we are always meant to be more than we are not.

So I’m done pretending that I’ve got all figured it out because I never want to say that the mysteries of living are solved.

How about you?

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Author: Jes Wright

Editor: Renee Picard 

Images: Author’s image