I’m a runner.

I don’t mean I jog, either. Not even for a New Year’s resolution. Jogging has never been my thing.

I run from the stuff that bugs me.

As a kid I literally ran away, only I had nowhere to go. At six years old I packed a backpack with crackers, a change of clothes, a lighter and a knife, and headed on out. I walked west, knowing I’d eventually have to veer south to reach my grandparents in Florida. I was sure I could find the way but guessed I’d run out of crackers before I got there. Maybe my aunt and uncle were a better idea. I turned around and walked east, then west again, then east. It seemed hopeless.

Today I don’t head east or west, north or south. I don’t run to Florida. I just shut down. I sometimes try to call it letting go of things, but there’s a problem with that.

You can’t let go of what you never held onto.

Invincible Hope readers may sometimes wonder why I share my stories here. Of course, I share because I believe that storytelling spreads hope and saves lives – when someone says, “me, too” they are no longer alone with their own similar story, and perhaps that lessens their shame a bit.

But I also share my stories because when I put words to what happened to me – when I name it – I hold onto it in a real way. Only then I can truly let it go, turning it over to the Universe for healing.  

Turning over my pain without holding it first is false spirituality. It’s a form of running. I have to allow it to be, without numbing it, before I can heal. Words help me grasp what I’m tempted to avoid.

Words heal.