The minute I hung up the phone, the tears came rolling in, like the all too familiar summer storms. During these summer rainstorms, water pours from the sky at an astounding rate. That night was no different, besides the fact that the downpour was coming from my eyes and heart.
I cried the tears of a hundred heartbreaks that night, easily a summer’s worth of storms. I wasn’t yelling at him, not really. He was just the one who had inadvertently ripped the band-aid off of my wounded heart.
I could feel myself sliding down the slippery slope of sorrow and heartbreak that leads to binge watching chick flicks and rehashing the whole encounter with girlfriends far and wide over text message. But I caught myself before I slid too far. I could see that I was no longer in control, but that my victim archetype was the one throwing this dramatic fit. And she took control because I had stories—stories I believed to be true and unchangeable.
I could clearly see all the stories that night. Stories I had woven for so many months and years, that they became my reality. These stories about how I deserved better, of not being enough, and of fairy-tale romances dictated how I related to myself, to men, to romance.
My years of self-study through yoga suddenly kicked in. I remembered to look past those stories, to look at what really is. When I looked, I saw that reality is so uncomplicated. It’s free of all the drama I create for myself in the early stages of dating.
And, as with those summer storms, the rain moves out just as quickly as it moves in. Our world looks different after those storms—raindrops linger on blooming flowers, and the suns rays glitter and shimmer on wet surfaces. Those rainstorms offer us a new perception of the world around us.
After the tears ceased that night, I emerged with a new perspective. I realized I could rewrite those stories. This freedom brought me the gift of understanding and vocalizing my needs in relationships of all kinds, the gift of knowing I am enough, and of recognizing my own worthiness.
Sometimes those not-so-true stories reappear in my mind like ominous clouds on the horizon, threatening rain. But, I see them now for what they really are: stories that can be rewritten.