I was not digging around in the past. It was enough to know where something was buried, that there was something buried to begin with. The tangibility of it gave my pain acknowledgement and having that, I was able to admit and address my issues without as much fear.

I had to trust that between the time that thing was buried and the unearthing of it, I have grown enough so that the buried thing might quake in my shadow, might wither, and fade, so that I can finally have the light, so that it cannot choke the roots of who I am, so that I could blossom and bear fruit.

It took me nearly forty years to be well enough to have a child. When I did, too many people saw only the twisted external remains of who I was when that buried thing finally let go of me. They could not see beyond the battle, only the battle itself. They could not see beauty. They could not see the fresh hope at the centre, and they were too arrogant to simply let me grow.

I grew, anyway.