For the sister who feels like her life is a mess. For the one who feels like a failure because she can’t keep juggling, can’t keep the ball rolling.
Your story is my story.
You are not alone.
Sister, I am a mess.
That’s always a true statement, but recently, it’s been blaring in earth-shaking bass, and screaming in blinding neon-yellow.
I admit it: I’m a mess. My life feels like complete chaos.
I feel it at every corner: relationships, auditions, work, writing, and loudest: in my head. There, I’m drowning under the tidal wave of all of the poisonous should have’s and should not’s. My brain is running me ragged, shaming me for mistakes I’ve made, and things I wasn’t bold enough to step outside of myself and do.
It is a cacophony inside my head. I cannot cope with the stories of my past: when the tsunami of fear won. When the hurricane of pride won. When the earthquake of comparison won.
I can’t tame my present, either. Every phone call or email is an offense, asking me to reach my arms farther than their reach. I am constantly letting others down. And I am constantly letting myself down, realizing on repeat that I am failing to choose contentment as I place all of my hopes in the future.
But that doesn’t work either, because I am afraid of the future. I fear it will simultaneously ask too much of me, and yet, not be enough for me. That time will pass and my dreams will pass away with it.
Each of these worries is a wave crashing over me, smashing me, cracking me, crushing me, and I imagine I hear little pieces of me clink and roll away.
And while I’m trying to pick up my scattered pieces, I can’t help but notice the pieces themselves. In my hand, I hold my fiery red mistakes, my brokenhearted blues, the sunshine-yellow of what made me laugh, the emerald green of the rare moments of peace and rest, and the rich royal purple of all of the time spent wishing I was someone better.
They are all mashed up, crushed up, all in a chaotic jumble.
And as I hold my mess in my hand, I can’t help but stare. Because there’s something about the brokenness that’s beautiful. There’s something breathtaking about the bold colors that make up the mess.
The pieces in my hand are materials for a mosaic.
Maybe my broken mosaic mural could tell a better story than the perfect mural I’m always chasing.
Maybe the chaos of the storm needed to prove to me that I can’t handle it all, that I’ll never be able to.
Because maybe there’s something far greater at work in me than what I can see.
And maybe it’s not about getting it right every time.
Maybe it’s about making something beautiful with the pieces.
And as I begin to sift through the rainbow pieces, I uncover a new narrative.
I break. I fail. I fall. But each time, I get a new piece to add to my mosaic. A new story. A new lesson. A new moment of growth.
So, the storm does not get the final say. It’s a refining process. My mistakes and my overwhelm are giving me new perspective to make something real.
Because perfect is not real. Messy is real. And I’m beginning to believe my messy can be beautiful.
So, sister, let’s be real together. Let’s pick up a few pieces today and start to build something beautiful with our brokenness.