It feels likes every word I write is a revolution. Every post is a documentation immortalizing my mission to become. unlearn. relearn. understand. To study the mess that I am.

It’s like this “Fck You.” A polite “Screw off,” to any notions of who I am supposed to be. I don’t know who “you” is, but I thoroughly enjoy spiting them. It’s like, respectfully *disrespectfully* eat grass and kick rocks. I find myself not even wanting to know the narratives others are (or aren’t) recounting about me. I am locked in on the stories that I am living.

I like that I have pieces of myself enshrined and preserved in their truest, rawest state on the internet. That I don’t pretend not to think too much or feel too much. I love that this entire page is a breathing, pulsating commitment not to be perfect. I feel a rush reverberate through my body each time I flip the bird to what doesn’t serve me. It’s this sense that I’m coming home, every time that I put words to the journey to pursue presence and wholeness—freedom—over perfection. I’m not embarrassed of the painstaking, sometimes appearing to be fruitless effort—dedication—to choose love over fear. I am not afraid to appear like damsel in distress. Like I’m crazy. Like I’m doomed to a life ridden with anxiety and insecurities. I’m not scared to be soft. To look weak. I know that I’m strong. Strong enough—brave enough—to be vulnerable.

I feel like I know things earlier than other people. My dad says it’s like the quote from It’s a Wonderful Life, “George [insert, Fiona], you were born older.” Or being an old soul. I have this gut-knowing. A remembering. I trust that I’ll know everything that I need to know when I know it. As will everyone else. With every instant, I am living and knowing my truth. It’s not up for debate. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I don’t owe anyone my knowing. But, when it feels right, I dare to share. I dare to confront my story.

I’m not ashamed of feeling like sometimes I’m going backwards or feeling so deeply that it intimidates me. All along the way, I am learning, even if all I’m learning is how to continue surrendering. To continue learning what it is I’m ready to release.

Sometimes I fret over what it must look like to read these posts. Like, “Oh, there she goes, surrendering, again. What does that even mean??” Or, “oh, she should really stop overthinking it.” To that, I say:

This life is mine alone. So I have stopped asking people for directions to places they’ve never been.”

― Glennon Doyle, Untamed

I find it empowering to disavow myself from any unconscious agreement to only share my “wins.” You know, the socially acceptable, won’t get you looks of pity ones. I refuse to internalize the comments that could make me feel broken for having some cracks. I like to think that I can be part of this movement—this paradigm shift—in which we stop pretending to have it all together and instead recognize that we are all complete human beings, doing the best that we can.

It’s like we’re animals, bred in captivity, and when anyone tries to leave the cage, everyone else in the cage clamors to tell that brave soul why they’re safer inside. The thing about freedom is it involves leaving what you know. It is traced with criticism. It’s beautiful, but in a wild, natural way. It is unconventional. There’s no path. the path needs to be carved. By me. By you.

My friend Victoria once asked me, “Fi, who goes with you when you die?” I nodded understanding her question. This life is mine alone, with the capacity to touch and to heal the lives of countless others. People-pleasing is nothing but a band-aid when all you want is to please yourself.

So, I’m weird. I’m imperfect. I am honest. I contradict myself a bit. I am wrong. I try. That’s all I could ask for. I’m here. This is my act of revolution. And, I’m proud of it.

Xx, Fi