I am different and I am the same, and I love differently, and I love the same. I am beginning to suspect that this might be the rhythm of all my life.
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Making sense of the love I have for England and the life I had there.
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The day. The year. How I changed my mind about this place.
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Nobody told me what to expect when I ‘got better’.
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These years have been the narration of an unfolding transformation, where my words make me as I language them. What do words do, though? My dissertation also asks this question.
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Instead of walking away, can we ask better questions? Will you choose to walk towards the inconsistencies of someone with love and curiosity? We need to love the people with mismatched surfaces and centers.
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Every beautiful moment, place, person, and opportunity was only ever made available to me after the space in my heart had broken wide open in order to receive it.
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