Not Her Type

Not Her Type

This statement. This frustrating turn of phrase.

It’s oftentimes been such a source of insecurity and frustration.

Hear it often enough and it can start to define the way you see yourself.

At least that’s what I did.

I heard it over and over again. And what does one do with that?

…

How mad could I have been?

I simply wasn’t her type…

And it creates this tension and anger within me.

I shouldn’t be mad, but I am upset and angry and frustrated.

Why do I have to play second fiddle to someone because of the color of my skin? My height. My personality. My weight. My baggage.

And so, I sorted through everything that was in my control and I’d be lying if I didn’t say parts of me hoped things would be different.

And they were for me. But they weren’t for them.

…

And it hurt. So deeply.

But… in the midst of it all, I found peace.

A hope. One of patient and humble expectations in a posture of surrender.

One that cries out in anguish but rests easy knowing that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Worthy. Beautiful. Enough.

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