Glow by Lady E

  I used to choose things because they’re pretty or affordable, but I end up hurt.  Like two brands of slippers that shall not be named.  Now I choose things that are kind to my body. Soft, supportive, gentle.  Especially after my foot ached for better.  I think I’m learning to apply that standard to more things. Pretty is lovely. Fun is lovely. And I will probably always be drawn to something that sparkles. But I don’t think beauty should require me to tolerate discomfort just to keep it around. That applies to something as small as a pair of slippers. Or a hairbrush. This new brush is still glittery. Still pretty. Still something that makes me smile when I see it sitting with my things. But it also feels good. The bristles glide through my hair without scratching my scalp or catching strands between broken tips. It does what a hairbrush is supposed to do without asking me to endure something first. And maybe that’s one of the quieter forms of self-respect. Not...

  I kept it because it was pretty.  Even when it started to hurt.  Even if it was already looking nasty.  No matter how hard I tried to clean it, some of the dirt just wouldn’t budge anymore.,  And the bristles.  A lot of them have lost their bristle tips.  And it hurt when I brushed.  And the empty tips were also pulling my hair.  But still, I kept it. Because it was pretty. Because it was glittery. Because technically, it still worked. And maybe because throwing something away when it can still be used has always felt a little wasteful to me. So I kept brushing my hair with it. And kept getting annoyed when it pulled. Kept wincing when one of those exposed bristles scratched my scalp. Until one day I thought: Why am I doing this? It’s a hairbrush. It’s supposed to make something as ordinary as brushing my hair feel good. And this one didn’t anymore. That thought felt strangely bigger than the brush in my hand. Because how many things do we ...

  I don’t announce my boundaries anymore. I don’t explain them. Don’t justify them. Don’t soften them so they land better. I just… move. Quietly. Consistently. Without asking if it makes sense to anyone else. Because I’m done.  Done with all that negativity and toxicity that some people keep throwing at me.  It didn’t happen all at once. There was no moment where I decided that’s it, I’m done. It was slower than that. Quieter. Like noticing how much of myself I kept offering just to be understood. It was an accumulation of events from the past year to the present.  An accumulation of feelings and neglect and disrespect.  Access used to feel like something I had to give. Freely. Openly. Without hesitation. My time. My energy. My thoughts. Always available. Always explainable. Always… reachable. Always ready to give, to do, to become.  Always ready to move. To stop what I’m doing. To please.  Until I noticed something. The ...