This year was Break.

It wasn't so much of a break as a breaking down. I said no. I said “I'm done”. I walked away. I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't want to.

This year has been filled with sweet new things; a son, kisses from my daughter, a wriggling, wagging tail to greet me when I come home, and freedom.

Because when you let go, there's freedom. When you realize that the robotic motions you've been going through haven't been doing anyone any favors, there's freedom. When you stop just trying to keep the peace, there's freedom. I had really started to believe that I was some sort of cursed fighter who would keep taking hits, but never get a punch in, and never get knocked out. This year, I stepped out of the ring.

So when I say break, I mean the breaking of a glass window when you throw a sledgehammer through it. The pieces fly and oh, it is devastating, it is chaos. But it's beautiful, and with the dark glass gone you can see what lays behind it.

Because all these other years I have been trying to keep the glass intact. Gluing it here, taping it there, hoping no one will see the cracks. Hoping the pressure will subside.

Seething at my little window because it doesn't keep the cold out anymore.

This year, the storms raged, inside and out. This year, the water and the snow and the sunlight kept pouring in, and I started to wonder what freedom would taste like. But all my life I'd been told that Eve had made that very mistake, and even if I was brave enough, wouldn't someone stop me if I tried?

This year I realized no one could send me back into my box anymore. This year I stopped trying to tape the pieces back together. This year I stood back and let it break.

And 2014? 2014 will be the year I clear out the rest of the pieces myself.

And I am breathless with anticipation.

Eyes wide open. Not holding back any more.

I'm free. Finally.

Beyond any doubt.

Assuredly. Beyond recall. Beyond shadow of doubt. Certainly. Completely. Conclusively. Convincingly. Decisively. Definitely. Determinately. Done with. Enduringly. For all time. For ever. For good. In conclusion.

Inescapably, Inexorably, Irrevocably; Once and for all.

Lastly. Permanently.

Past Regret.

Settled

With conviction.

 http://thesaurus.com/browse/finally

A letter to December

Dear December.

I love you. I absolutely love you. But then, who doesn't? With Christmas trees, candy canes and egg nog spiced with rum, you're hard to beat. To top it all off, you come with the promise of a beautiful new year that comes in with a bang.

You are the month that everyone celebrates. The last month. Where we say goodbye to this year and welcome the next. The month where we hope the cold can coax down the snow so we can have our white Christmas.

You are the month we connect with loved ones and once again mourn those who have passed on. You are the month we eagerly set Christmas presents under the tree. You are the month we almost enjoy the bite in the air, the chill, because we know what's coming.

But this year, December, I want a little more.

I know, I know, it seems selfish, so selfish. You already give so much. I picture you like a mother in her kitchen after all the baking is done, the family is here, and supper is on the table, hearing yet another request from a child who hasn't learned their manners yet. And yet, I have to ask.

It seems like I've wasted so many Decembers. I've been waiting, waiting for the new year. Waiting for my January. I've saved my resolutions and my new beginnings. I've saved up all my moments in one year hoping I could cash them in the next. I can't count how many times I've waited. Because you weren't perfect, because the stars hadn't aligned, because I was scared.

Nothing really changed in January, though. I still failed in keeping some of my resolutions. I still couldn't find my perfect moments. I was still scared, and still, nothing was perfect.

I felt like the princess locked away in her tower, waiting for the perfect kiss to wake her and shake her and free her.

And it never happened.

So what could I do but cry and stomp and pray, wondering why god didn't love me enough to set me free? All I wanted was to be given that moment. To be seen. To be heard.

Because how could I take the first step on my own? How could I boldly step into the spotlight, facing all that rejection? How could I know when the time was right? How could I dare to make my own moment? No, I needed to be pushed, I needed it to line up perfectly. So I could know that all of this is ok.

I'm sorry for that now. For all those Decembers where I waited. Where I didn't take the jump, where I said it wasn't enough, where I held out for January.

I'm sorry for all of those wasted moments that I deemed imperfect, not quite good enough.

This year, I want to pour everything into my December. I want to start now. I don't want to wait with clenched hands wishing for my January. Hoping that it will be everything I need it to be, only to be let down once more by impossible expectations that have nothing to do with effort or work or time. No more waiting for the perfect moments that always pass me by, that are always less than I want them to be. This is my December. Beautiful and perfect.

I'm hoping. Hoping that this year will be different, what's left of it. And that's what I'm asking of you, December. Help me along, because I'm different now. Show me that I wasn't wrong in wanting more. I'm seeking now, seeking for more than I've ever dreamed of, better than I've ever dreamed of. Can you help me find it?

I know that I can't get everything right in a month, that's not what I mean. But I want you and I to walk hand in hand as far as you can take me into this new and beautiful life I'm living. This life that I've always passed by, but no longer.

I want to see the beauty of December, and I want you to show me.

Declarations

 My body is my holy ground. It's a sacred temple that my soul calls its home. It's not to be degraded, or objectified, or turned into something that exists solely for someone else's pleasure. 

It's not here for you to criticize or condemn. 

It's not here for you to rate on a scale of 1-to-10 or hot-to-not. 

It's not here so I can work the fat away or gain just a little more so I curve. 

It's not here for me to give birth with. 

It's not hear for me to cover up or hide for your comfort, I don't have to pretend it doesn't exist. 

It's not here for me to be ashamed by it. I don't have to hide the stretch marks or the cellulite, and I don't have to hide my long legs or big breasts. 

I don't have to count every calorie or eat a steak to show you I can hang with big boys.

I can do with it what I please. 

I can be passionate. I can be persistent. I can be lazy. I can dance and not care who watches. 

I can run a marathon or I can sit on my couch and watch tv. 

I can dress it up or dress it down.

I don't need to shut my mouth or hold my tongue or watch my step. I can speak my mind.

Because it's my holy ground. It's the way I feel the world and see the sunsets and smell the flowers. I'm hearing, thinking, and feeling and I will not let that be ignored or glossed over or pushed aside. I refuse to be shamed, I refuse to stand down, I refuse to be made smaller because of what I don't have that I should have or what I do have that captures your attention. I refuse to operate by your rules. I refuse to look down on other women who have “less” or “more”. I refuse to be played around with, or to be told that I make myself a plaything. I'm not here for you. I never was, and I never will be.

I'm here for me.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, that's ok. Because it isn't about you.

And I'll wear a bikini if I want to.

I'll work out in a sports bra if I want to.

I'll visit a topless beach to feel the sun on my skin and the water on my chest.

I don't owe my body to anyone, and I'm not defined by how you see it.

It's sacred, it's beautiful.

And you were wrong when you told me it was dangerous. You were wrong when you told me it needed to be covered. You were wrong when you made it anything less than the beautiful gift it is.

I refuse to live that way anymore. I want to feel the sun on my skin. 

(In response to a prompt from story sessions, which you can subscribe to here:  http://eloranicole.com/)