Everyone knows me as Doctor Venus, the Millionaire Mentor. And if you’ve been following my blog, you know I’ve been struggling with what to call myself, ever since the emergency hysterectomy turned my world upside down.
I’m starting fresh. I’m starting new. I’m starting from a whole different place.
I’m starting over.
I have a new brand—a new direction. An evolved direction. Dr. Venus Opal Reese. I had thought I was going to go with just VenusOpal, but I want my new brand to encompass ALL of me.
The “Dr.” represents Stanford—Nanna chided me for wanting to leave it out. She questioned why I was so committed to honoring the street in me but so willing to eradicate my 13 years of education represented in my Ph.D. from Stanford. #mouthonfloor I had no words. So, “Dr.” stays.
“Reese” is my birth mother’s maiden name. Momma named me “Venus Opal” after my zodiac sign, Libra. In astrology, Venus is a planet that rules our love style. Opal is the birthstone. It’s taken decades to grow into the fullness and beauty of my name. I was named after a brilliant, bright star in the sky. My middle name is a precious jewel. Maybe Momma knew all along that I had a destiny that wanted me … #iloveyoumomma.
I think my daddy would have liked me. I also think he would have loved my name … Momma named me while there was still love present between them. At least, that’s what my heart says. So my full name includes all of me: the streets and the Stanford; the pain and the protection; the hurt and the hope. #iammyfathersdaughter
God is faithful. I feel in my heart that He is moving me into marketplace ministry. Not that I’m a minister—I talk too much shit for that! But just like the civil rights movement was a ministry, my work ministers. It has everything to do with speaking your truth … breathing your fire.
It has everything to do with healing. Healing your self-hate wound. Healing the mama wound, the daddy wound. Once you deal with your wounds, you can manifest. And when you create the sufficient conditions to manifest, what arises is your destiny.
And I trust that THIS is what I’m supposed to do. (If it wasn’t, all the pieces wouldn’t have landed where they have.) I trust and know that everything is working in my favor for my greatest good in the most magnificent way beyond anything I could ever ask for. I get to just trust that.
What I’m being with is sharing that process. Not just with my Facebook family, not just with my tribe … but with the masses.
So why am I nervous? Well, because everyone knows me for millions, not manifesting.
Yes, I might be a LITTLE bit of a punka$s here!
Because I’m shifting, y’all.
This is going from business development to personal development to spiritual growth. Or maybe it’s always been all three and the order is just shifting. Be that as it may, I’m doing God’s work now. I’ve come out of the spiritual closet as a subversive Christian. And it makes me a little emotional!
This is my first time going into the industry, living out loud. I’m being my FULL self—not my “perfected” self.
I’m rebuilding, here. And it’s going to take some time. Nothing is immediate, and I don’t expect anything overnight. I don’t have anything ready. I don’t have an offer yet (although I’m working on something SO HOT, SO POWERFUL, I can’t wait to share it with you!).
But you have to start with people. And that’s what I’m doing—making business friends with the heavy hitters in this industry.
And even though it is a little nerve wracking, I’m reminding myself of all the reasons I have to be proud of me.
I’m proud of me for getting back up. For trusting. For healing. For going to yoga. For reading a piece I wrote at a Spoken Word event. For being an artist. (I AM an artist.)
I’m setting my intention:
I’m walking into love. I’m walking into acceptance. I’m walking into appreciation. I’m walking into joy. I’m walking into friendships. I’m walking into family.
I’m growing and evolving, and it is all in perfect time.
Most of all, I’m thanking God for my magnificent life as I give myself permission to be my WHOLE self. Nothing hidden. No shame. Really walking in the audacity of authenticity.
In just 4 weeks, I’m moving to sunny, beautiful San Diego!
Dallas has been my home for 15 years, but it wasn’t the city I chose. I came here because of work … not because it called to my heart.
But San Diego is my choice! And I’m SO excited.
I’m going to give you a “virtual” tour of my new condo on the 29th floor.
As you come in the front door, you immediately get the view in the background through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The mountains are glorious! You can see the water, too.
There is so much open space. It feels so clean, so full of possibility. The floors are all wood, which I love.
There’s a washer and dryer, a closet … the guest room with its own walk-in closet. (I’m already picturing my little sis—my best friend!—here.)
Oh, and the guest bathroom has a soaking tub! #realtalk: I want in already.
Then there’s the kitchen (y’all know I don’t cook, right?). LOL.
One of the things I love most about my new place is the balcony and patio. I’m going to lay some grass down out there so Happy doesn’t have to go down 29 levels to relieve himself. Oh, and from the balcony, you can actually see two dog parks down below. (Happy is HAPPY!)
The master bedroom has floor-to-ceiling windows too, which I just love. There’s a sort of industrial look and feel in there and I love that too!
So I wanted to share this with you today because you’re my tribe, and you walk with me through my changes. I wanted you to know about this big one.
But more importantly, I want to give it up to God.
God did this. ALL of this. Please don’t ever think I did a damn thing. This was not about a goal, or ambition, or willpower, or prayer, even. This is all what God brought me.
Looking back over the last 13 months, I didn’t always understand His plan. If you follow my blog, then you know we straight up boxed sometimes. But here’s what I know: you’ve got to give it to God.
You’ve got to let God do God.
The beautiful thing is that, when you tell your truth, when you heal, you create the space to manifest. And when you start to manifest, what starts to arise, what starts to be revealed, is your destiny.
Healing is the key. And you know I’ve preached this for years, because I LIVE it.
The emergency hysterectomy knocked me on my ass, no doubt. But I CHOSE to heal.
As a human being, it’s normal to have doubts. It’s normal to be bone tired when you’re hit with shit … when you face loss. It’s normal to be scared—to want to give up sometimes. It’s easy to say, “Fuck, I don’t want to deal with this no more.” That’s human.
But if you want to be whole, you have to let yourself grieve. If you try to be all positive on top of some bullshit, it will mess you up.
I’ll say it again: I chose to heal. I chose me.
And choosing me means I tell the truth.
Yes, I am still sad. I will never have a child, and that still hurts. Healing is a process.
And God is a big part of that. I believe God broke me. Shook me. Thrashed the fuck out of me.
All to evolve me.
And on the other side of that, I am blown away by His grace.
I never would have given myself all of this—this new life. But God is so good. So faithful.
My God is a gangsta, and I’m His favorite.
I am SO grateful to Him for giving me beauty for ashes.
I’m starting all over again, and I am genuinely excited about the future.
I’ve walked through the fire, and now, I breathe it.
And #realtalk: I have not felt this much joy in months!
Finally … finally …
I have arrived!
Allow me to reintroduce myself …
I am Venus Opal. Your artist. Your CEO. Your CCO (Chief Creative Officer).
Your bad ass.
This transformation of my hair is transforming ME, y’all! I feel like a new person. My confidence is up. I feel ALIVE. I feel happy. And Black as f#ck!
I am the hottest thing up in these streets I walk with Happy! #aintafraidtosayit
My hair is curly. Curly! And I LOVE the cut—it’s mohawky. LOVE how it makes my cheekbones pop.
But the thing I love the MOST is the color.
It’s so wild! It looks like a flame. And it wasn’t even intentional.
Let me explain—because there’s a lesson in this story, too.
When I went to get it colored, I didn’t know that I needed to tell the stylist that I had some black color in it. #hidethegreys
(If you’ve bleached your hair before, then you probably know where this is going …)
When she put on the color, the toner (which is used to calm “the brassiness”) somehow turned my sh^t pink! LOL.
I was not prepared for that. But this stylist was just so good. She didn’t trip. She just said, “No, I’m going to fix it.” And she did.
And then it got reddish.
And I f@cking LOVE it.
THIS is who I am—a flaming dragon.
It FITS me now. It came from a “mistake” (that wasn’t a mistake, I know now), but it is actually perfect for ME, in all my imperfection. A perfect match.
It reminds me every single day that I AM an artist.
And I’m back to the gym. I’ve got a power-fit body and dragon energy!
It’s hard to put this feeling into words, but I feel FREE. Self-expressed. Bold. Daring. Sexy. I feel like a f%cking rockstar!
Maybe I’ll do poetry readings. Maybe I’ll keep writing and writing and writing. Maybe I’ll take on screenplays. Playwriting.
What I know for sure is that I am surrendering to my destiny—embracing and manifesting my purpose.
I am ready to pour into my artistic self the way I’ve poured into my business self all these years.
I am taking on my dreams!
The sun has finally come out, everyone.
I’m not crying all day anymore. I’m not mad at anyone.
I’m starting to dream again, believe again, hope again.
I am present with the fact that God is good. God is faithful. God is brilliant. God is just so f!cking cool.
I’m reading a book right now by TD Jakes. It’s called Crush. Hear me when I say “divine timing.”
Check this out:
Referring to his new book, Jakes says, “Life has a lot of ways to crush us. And the reason I wrote the book is that in the process of the crushing, there’s alwaysthe gift of wine that flows out of it, that you come out of it stronger and in another form.”
I finally understand. I finally get it.
This whole idea of pruning and pressing and crushing as necessary preparation. That it’s required to reach your next level.
I’m over here like, “Okay God. I get it now.” And it’s so consistent with everything in the Bible. And everything in all the holy books. There’s always some kind of break, some tearing up before you reach your next level.
Change is coming. I can FEEL it. I can hear the whispers again. I can see it. I can tell that God is up to something.
I don’t know why it took so long, but I get it now.
And out of this realization—this knowing—I wrote something that I want to share with you now.
VenusOpal is born … No, she is not a beautiful butterfly. No, she is not a phoenix rising from the ashes of life. She’s a f*ckin’ dragon from the streets. She’s got a serious edge on her. She’s Black As F*ck. She wields truth like a weapon. She’s in love with the most gangsta nigga that ever was and ever could be—God. She loves her puppy like you love your child. She’s known for manifesting millions. She’s switching lanes. She now manifests miracles. If you f*ck with her, for real for real, she will teach you how to do both. She is the way, the truth, and the light to surrendering to your purpose, embracing your destiny, so YOU can live your authentic and abundant life NOW. Simply put, she’s her father’s daughter. In street parlance: she’s a bad b&tch. She has NO RESPECT for respectability. She is spiritually subversive and biblical based. She is a hot mess on a good day. She knows she is a street urchin who God anointed and appointed for those of us who have been hurt, crushed, annihilated by life. We wounded ones don’t fit into the boxes we are supposed to. And we need a new way in, a new way to win, to get real with God by being real with ourselves. VenusOpal—from the streets to Stanford Ph.D to self-made multi-millionaire—had to lose it all to find herself. Oh yeah, you should know she’s an artist and into cute, kink, and queer. She’s a CEO… … and she BREATHES fire. It’s nice to meet you (again).
What would it be like to be totally bald? To just get rid of it? What might it be like to do something as drastic to my hair as the doctors did to my body?
Think about it: as women, we wrap a lot of our identity into our hair. Right? I mean, I LOVE my hair.
But changing it now feels like a natural extension of all of the other transformation that is happening in me.
I’ve done it ALL, y’all. I’ve shaved it before—twice, I think. Maybe three times. Not totally bald, but very close.
I’ve done the perm. Had it straight. I’ve had the blow out. The braids.
I do what Black Women do—whatever the hell we want with our hair!
So this is not about style.
This is not about right or wrong.
I just don’t know who I am anymore, so of course I don’t know how I want to look. I don’t know how I see myself anymore.
When I was about ten (maybe 12), my Momma cut my hair off. I’m not even sure why. But when she did it, amid all of the hate that came out of her mouth, I knew I wasn’t pretty anymore. Without my hair, I was ugly.
That was my truth.
Our hair carries stories. And right now, I don’t know my story.
Here’s what I DO know:
I’m moody as hell. Not regular moody. EXTREME moody.
Sad a lot. Tired a LOT.
And I’m angrier even more. I’m talkin’ rage angry. Zero to 150 in about 10 seconds. Spoiling for a brawl.
My hormones are on parade, and I’m all over the place. (You cannot understand the gravity of those words. #realtalk: The doggy daycare that had Happy wasn’t calling me back and I convinced myself—I’m talking for real, for real—that they were taking my puppy. That they had turned him into a drug mule. Or a sex trafficking puppy. Or they were pimping him out for somebody who was dying, and they didn’t want to tell me. Now, you may be laughing, but I am dead serious when I say I got all kinds of twisted about it.)
I find it very difficult to make a decision. I’m indecisive.
I have no direction.
I’m not attached to anything. I surrender.
I just can’t figure out what I want.
I know how to survive. That’s the street in me.
But I don’t even know how to consider what I actually want. I have no practice in that. I can tell you what I DON’T want much quicker.
But my hair … what am I supposed to do with my HAIR?
What if I just let it go?
Sitting in the unknown. That’s where you’ll find me.
So you know I’m deeply into personal development, right?
As my body heals, I’m working on healing the rest of me, too.
Last year, right before everything hit the fan with my emergency hysterectomy, some things came up for me around my father.
Now, let me go back for a minute, since I know there’s new people coming to my blog now who are still getting to know me.
First and foremost, I am street. Yes, I have a PhD from Stanford, and yes, I’ve done five million on my own in my business. Yes, I pour seven-figure strategies into my tribe. That’s what I do.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve done, for years.
But underneath all of that, I am 100% street in my blood. In my DNA. My lineage is street. My people are hustlers. I come from a lineage of hustlers, dealers, gangsters, pimps … just rough motherf%ckers. These are my people, and I love them with my f#cking heart. I love the street in me.
So my father was a hustler, and my mother is her own badass.
Now, because of her OWN history of hurts, when Momma got pregnant, she made an appointment to abort me.
But then my daddy pulled some REAL gangster shit.
Momma told me he set her on his lap, and said nine words that I will never forget.
“If you kill my seed, I will kill you.”
Now, understand that everything is heightened when you’re street. It’s not regular. It’s not … how do you say this, God?
It’s not measured. It’s extreme. Everything is an extremity. And so where I come from, and y’all need to hear me on this—you don’t say sh&t you don’t mean. You do not bluff. You don’t bluff, because if someone calls your bluff, then you lose your credibility. And sometimes, a LOT of times, that’s all you’ve got.
That’s why I don’t back down. It’s a street thing. If you challenge me, everything in my DNA is going to rise up. There’s nothing to talk about; I’m not going to lose. That’s not what I do. That’s not what WE do.
And so Mama caught that, and she backed down. #realtalk: Daddy scared the sh*t out of her.
But then she went to jail for holding his gun when some bullsh%t popped off. And she got all kinds of pissed off at him for not coming to visit her even though he couldn’t, because he had a warrant out for his arrest.
So he couldn’t be around, but he still saved my life before I was born.
And that takes me straight to Isaiah—straight up biblical, you know what I’m saying?
“Before you were formed in your mother’s womb, I knew you.”
If you’re an Old Testament beast like I am, then you know what I’m talking about. God and Father, Father and Daddy are all conflated in me.
My father was willing to threaten, hurt, even kill for me. My mother’s life for mine.
Did he know I was anointed before I was born?
What if all this time, I’ve been thinking it’s God, but it’s really been my Daddy?
What if, before I was born, I was protected? What if, before I was born, I was chosen? What if, before I was born, I was special?
And what if he knew?
What if he knew before I was born that I have a destiny?
Why else would he fight for my life, and win?
I have spent three decades of my life tending to, dismantling, and deconstructing my mother’s wounds, nullifying her pain. Generational pain. Because I believe that each time I heal, she heals. And another black woman heals.
This process is not just me—it goes before me and it goes behind me. There’s a lineage in front of me and there’s a lineage behind me. And each time I heal, I’m healing a cultural consciousness through me. That is why we heal, and why I teach healing. We don’t heal for us. We don’t heal for the individual.
I don’t heal for me—I heal for we.
So I can’t help but wonder what might happen if I took on my father’s protection, now.
After all, in a biblical sense, the blessings that get passed on generationally come through the lineage of the father, not the mother. They come through the lineage of the father’s bloodline. That’s why the blessings of Abraham come through the sons, not the daughters. Right?
Walk with me, here:
My life makes no sense.
Given the extremity of my PTSD, my anxiety disorder, my dyslexia, my high-functioning autism … given the fact that I’m literally legally handicapped …
How do I hold four degrees? A PhD from Stanford? How did I make five million in less than six years?
How did I close a show off Broadway? How am I an award-winning play writer and poet?
How do I have the ability to love?
And to still love and to still love, and to love again, and to love again?
How do I continuously create something out of nothing?
My life makes no sense … unless we add in my father’s bloodline.
Which brings me to these questions that have shaken me to my core:
What if I am not my mother’s pain? What if I’m my daddy’s pride? What if I’m my father’s daughter? What if I am him?
I don’t know what he looks like—I don’t have a single picture of him—but they say I look like him. They say I have his thinking. His swag. They say he was charismatic. A strategist. A leader people followed like the Pied Piper.
I can’t help but wonder.
What if life had been different?
Now, I’m not saying it would have been a good thing if he had stuck around, necessarily. If he had raised me, given how much shit he was in, I’m pretty confident I would have been a f$cking kingpin! I’m not kidding. I think I would have been running the streets. And I would have been glorious, because my daddy would have trained me.
I think God made sure Nanna would find me. Take me in. To give me the compassion that comes with grace and mercy.
But what if I AM my father’s daughter? What if the whispers I hear aren’t God, but my daddy? What if he is in me? What if I shifted my life? What if I changed my life from tending to my mother’s pain, to honoring my father’s protection? What if I took on being my father’s daughter? What if I took on his ruthlessness for that which he loves? His genius and his brilliance that could outsmart any system? His boldness, his fearlessness of living life on his own terms, above the law, beneath it, in it. You know, what if I really am my father’s daughter?
What if I took on living my life not as my mother’s pain … but as my father’s daughter? What would that mean?
It would mean a completely different life. A different context. A different narrative. A different confidence. A different pride. A different authority. A different walk. A different f#cking power.
And all I know for SURE at this exact moment is how good that idea feels.
For the first time in a long time, today was a good day!
I am SO in my feminine energy. I did my hair, and I love it! The outfit I wore was beautiful. (I mean, I looked GOOD, y’all.)
My videographer came by so we could shoot some content videos, and it really gave me a boost.
I got more flowers, chocolates, and love notes.
One of my clients called me, and it was great clowning around with her. It felt so good to laugh!
I feel loved and supported. #thankful
And the best part of today is that my body finally started feeling better! Yes, there is still pain, for sure. If I’m honest, my stomach still hurts like f*ck. And if I stress at all, the acids make everything even more painful, so I just can’t even go there. This whole body thing is a savage!
BUT, I am healing, and I feel stronger. I’m learning how to deal with the functionality of my body. And I can keep food down, which is definitely a bonus! #grateful
I can go for walks now, too. (Really, even with doctor permission!) Everything is slower, yes. But it feels so good to move my body. I mean, my lower back has been killing me, from lack of movement. So even going on walks—such a small thing, really—means so much to me.
I prayed, while I was walking.
“It’s not over.”
Which compelled me to play Kirk Franklin’s song, “Over.” #realtalk: Kirk has saved my life so many times, it’s ridiculous. No joke.
Check out these lyrics:
It’s not over If you’ve got air to breathe It’s not over Don’t believe everything you see You’re a fighter Weapons from somewhere higher They light up when you’re closer If God says it’s not over Get up ’cause it’s not over (Yeah get up, get up, get up) Get up ’cause it’s not over
PLUS, my baby sister (who is also my best friend!) and my niece are coming to see me!
And even though I’m back in bed at the moment, because I am tired, I feel much less despondent, and far more positive.
(I am also currently in movie-watching mode—all three of The Matrixes, The 300, Kill Bill … I’m getting my Netflix on!)
I had to fire someone from my team earlier. And yes, it sucked dirt. But I just don’t have the bandwidth for people who just have to be right. It’s not personal. It’s just not an energetic match, and I can’t make that work. It’s too exhausting under normal circumstances, never mind now. I’m just not doing it.
I’m saying, either empower my leadership, or go.
Simple as that.
I’ve made millions all on my own. By myself. So when people come at me like they’re doing me a favor, I’m like, oh hell no. That’s just insulting.
I used to be willing to try and work things out with people.
Right now, it’s just no.
Probably because …
… I am breathing fire!
And I LIKE it.
I am not a quitter. I don’t give up.
Now, I make NO promises for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I just might be back to weepy and frustrated and overwhelmed. I might be pissed off at the world again. Tomorrow, I may not give a sh*t.
I was SO excited to go to the gym today. I told myself I’d take it easy, and I thought (I really, really thought) I did. But without even doing much of anything, I seem to overdo it, and am exhausted again.
I can’t even begin to explain how hard it is for me to balance my active brain with my slowly healing body that keeps me from DOING anything. I’m not the kind of person to sit around, doing nothing. And I HATE feeling helpless.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, God.
How can I keep doing this for even another day, let alone a year or more??
And the loneliness … oh God, the loneliness.
It washes over me, dark and cold.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Even with people who love me around me, I’m still so damn lonely. I can’t explain it. I have no language for it.
I turn to Facebook just to feel connected to the world, in some way.
My emotions are all OVER the place, right now.
I’ll give you an example of what a minute in my mind is like right now. Ready?
I’m so moody. Weepy. I miss my puppy. What if he doesn’t even remember me? What if he loves his trainer more than me? He needs a travel bag. Oh God, when will I be able to travel again? I hate this. I want to go to Morocco and Tanzania. Japan. I had to cancel all my plans, events, tours. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe the doctors are wrong. F*ck the doctors. Not everybody needs so much recovery time. People don’t heal the same. I feel so hateful. Resentful. I don’t want to comb my hair anymore. Maybe I’ll get braids. I got flowers today. They’re nice. I’m so moody right now, I can’t stand it. I want Happy home. He is all that I have of my own, anymore.
See what I mean?
I cannot get my brain to calm down.
My mind is overwhelmed, and my body is … tired.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be hormonal when you’re pregnant. #thisissomebullshit
It makes even something as simple as talking to people SO hard. And it takes so much energy to engage.
And that’s why I write.
But writing doesn’t do much for the loneliness.
#realtalk: I’m frustrated as f*ck with my entire life right now. The life I know is over. Nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can change. It just is.
I think it must be like how an athlete feels when s/he plays pro ball, gets injured, and can’t play anymore. If it’s a serious injury, maybe even after s/he heals, s/he still can’t play ball anymore. S/He has to sit out, on the sidelines. Stop what s/he’s used to doing, and watch the world continue right on without her/him.
I think God is f*cking with me. If I’m being really REAL, I think he’s laying down some bullshit.
So we’re fighting, right now. Boxing.
That doesn’t mean I doubt. I know it’s Divine Order. I just don’t like it.
I don’t always have to agree with God.
I can have my opinions. I can be pissed.
I’m allowed to feel like this is not my life.
This can be just a SEASON in my life. A season of rest, even if I don’t want it. Even if I hate it.
God, I am tired.
And yes, even that is paradoxical, isn’t it? I resent my doctors and question how they could possibly think I need so much rest … rest, rest, rest … yet I’m saying I’m so tired all the time.
If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’re probably used to me starting a Facebook live or online event with something like this:
“Hi, I’m Dr. Venus Opal Reese—your Millionaire Mentor™.”
But I don’t want to call myself “doctor,” anymore.
I don’t feel the need to say, “multi-million-dollar earner,” anymore.
I don’t need the “Black Woman Millionaire” label, anymore. #imsoblackidyblackblackblack
I don’t need people to know I graduated from Stanford with multiple degrees.
None of this is who I am anymore.
But who AM I now?
The problem is, I really don’t know.
And a lot of that “unknowing” revolves around the fact that I don’t know what God wants me to be, anymore. I don’t know what He wants me to do with my life, anymore.
Now, hear me—I do not doubt God. Not ever. I never have. You can’t come up from the streets and doubt God. I’ve lived too much life to ever do that.
I am CLEAR that everything IS in Divine Order.
I just don’t know what He wants from me, anymore.
I don’t know my destiny, anymore.
I honestly don’t know how to be useful, anymore.
In the midst of all of this “unknowing,” I find myself reveling in the smallest, most seemingly insignificant things. Moving my body. Combing my hair. Thinking about Happy.
I woke up this morning and, for the first time in years, I could feel my hip bones.
That may not seem like much … unless you are used to looking and feeling five months pregnant, due to the size of the fibroids in your uterus.
But for me, this was HUGE.
I am watching my body change.
I am now at the weight I was when I was a dancer … and that brings me a very real spark of joy that I’ve been missing for a long time.
It makes me realize that, even as I sit here in emotional upheaval, so full of questions … I am manifesting. What I want comes to me, even when I’m not expecting it.
I am creating a whole new relationship with my body, even while questioning who I am now.
I’m questioning something else, too. I hesitate to share it, because I get how it might sound. But I have to remind myself that right now, I am writing for me—for my own healing. So if you don’t like the way this lands, it’s okay. You don’t have to. You can stop reading.
Here it is:
What if the tumors—and the process of the hysterectomy—was ALWAYS the closest I would ever come to giving birth?
The fibroids didn’t just make me look and feel pregnant, because of their weight and size. They also caused pain that I understand is similar to contractions.
The removal of them from my body was similar to a c-section, as I understand it.
And following the procedure, my hormones are just all over the place … just like when a woman gives birth.
So maybe, just maybe, this was the closest I was ever going to get to feeling life in my body.
And maybe this was all God’s way of helping me have the experience of “being pregnant,” and “giving birth.”
Maybe, ironically, that was part of healing my own wounds. (This “season” of my life coincided perfectly with my choice to get present with the absence of my father—but I’ll save that for its own post.)
So much of this journey is me trying to wrap my head around everything.
Maybe none of this will make an ounce of sense to anyone but me.
That’s okay. I’m comfortable, now, with just BEING with whatever it is I experience and feel.
What I’ve realized recently is that I think I had a secret hope. A secret dream that was hidden even from myself … because I never TRIED to have a baby. It wasn’t something I thought I wanted, consciously.
But now that the option isn’t there, I realize that hopes and dreams can live inside us, undiscovered.
Until it’s too late.
And now that the option is gone—now that the choice has been made for me—I realize I have to give up that quiet hope that I barely even felt before, but that was somehow ignited inside of me, when they took my uterus out of my body.
I grieve the dream, now.
Maybe, when I am able to fully reconnect with my physical body, I’ll find myself again.
Maybe then, I’ll know my new name, and it will match my new identity.
In my last post, I talked about how I am done tolerating. (You can read it here.)
Remember how I said I won’t f*$# with anyone who doesn’t raise my energetic frequency anymore?
I want to share something with you today that takes this concept even further.
It’s a poem I’ve loved my whole life.
It’s called, “The Invitation,” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
It hits me that way every single time.
Can you hear me? What I am asking of you?
All I want is for you to sit with me in the fire.
I am not looking for anyone to SAY or DO anything to change my circumstances. To “fix” anything, while I am healing. I just need your love. Your grace as a I grow …