Even people who don’t claim the label of a cynic are still not quick to make a home out of flesh and bones or a moment in time. It is scary to lay down roots in someone else’s being and hope for the best.
If anxiety was a person, it would be that person that periodically reminds you that your clothes fit a little tighter than they used to, or asks you how your love life is going when they know darn well you haven’t been on a date in at least six months.
I have so much left to do, and so much to still experience, and somewhere down the line I fed a lie to myself that I am supposed to have it all figured out when I haven't even experienced the best of what life has to offer.
Please know there is a reason you loved the hearts you loved, and it's okay to still care. You are not weak, you are not stupid, you are human, and sometimes we can't help the hands our hearts fall into.
I hate my struggle when it is loud and in my face, demanding that I feel it. I hate it. While my anxiety and my depression wage their loud war in my head and in my heart, my faith and my hope that one day my brain and I will be better friends, that hope is louder.