The second half of this year was a blessing disguised as a curse.
Sometimes I can’t even believe I was strong enough to get through it—and not just get through it, but grow from it, rise from it, go into 2020 as the baddest expression of myself thus far.
So like, not avada kedavra, so much as wingardium leviosa—you feel me?
Sometimes a curse is just a curse, but most often it’s a blessing, too. Most often, you leave the comfort and familiarity of the ordinary world, and enter the abyss—not to be broken and defeated—but to be transformed, renewed, resurrected.
Death. Rebirth. Again. Again.
The dark night of the soul is not a punishment, it’s an initiation. Each threshold of this journey is a portal. Every skin you shed, an offering.
It’s the most difficult thing to believe when you’re in the thick of it, but it’s the truest thing, nonetheless.
I’m not asking you to be grateful for the darkness, at least not yet—but I am asking you to hang on. To believe that your curses can be blessings. To journey the dark night of the soul with even the faintest whisper of hope.