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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