Hey everyone,
I’m not sure where to begin, but I feel like I need to share this with you all. Something happened recently that shifted my entire perspective, and I guess this is my own little corner to lay it bare.
A few weeks ago, I was rummaging through some old boxes in the attic, ones I hadn’t touched since we moved here. As I was shuffling through dusty photo albums and forgotten trinkets, I found a small, delicate wind chime. It was made of shells, each piece intricately cut and polished, strung together with care. You see, it wasn’t just any wind chime; it was something my grandmother had made with me when I was little. I hadn’t seen it in years. Holding it, I was suddenly awash with memories of her, with her gentle voice and warm hugs.
But it wasn’t just nostalgia that struck me. Attached to one of the shells was a tiny, folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. I unfolded it gently, my heart beating a little faster. The note was in my grandmother’s handwriting, unmistakably hers, with her loopy letters and elegant flair. It read, “For when you feel like the world is too loud, listen to your own heart.”
The note seemed simple, almost mundane to someone else, I suppose. But for me, it felt like she was speaking directly to a part of me I didn’t even know existed until that moment. Growing up, I always felt different, like there was a part of me that didn’t quite fit. I’m sure many of you have felt that way too, right? I’d always managed to brush it off as just being shy or introverted.
But as I held the wind chime, the cool shells pressing against my palm, I started to piece together a truth that had been quietly whispering within me for as long as I could remember.
Growing up in a loving, yet traditional family, I had never given myself the space to contemplate who I truly was, beyond what everyone expected me to be. I was the ‘good daughter’, the ‘kind friend’, always fulfilling roles without questioning them. Yet, I realized I had never truly been myself.
I sat there, on the attic floor, listening to the soft tinkling of the chime in my hand, almost like a conversation with my grandmother across time. And for the first time, I considered that maybe, just maybe, who I felt myself to be was enough. That whatever truth about myself that had been echoing inside me was valid, no matter how unexpected or different it might be.
After that day in the attic, I found myself slowly unraveling the layers of what I thought I was supposed to be. I began to embrace the parts of me I had shunned, parts I didn’t think anyone else would understand. Gradually, I started journaling, trying to map out these feelings and explore them without judgment. It was terrifying, but liberating.
Conversations with some close friends helped too. I confided in them how I’d felt for years—like I was living someone else’s version of my life. And you know what? They didn’t run away. They listened, and they accepted me, all of me. Even the parts I was still learning to accept myself.
It’s a slow journey, and I’m still on it. But I wanted to share this because maybe someone out there needs to hear it. Maybe you’ve tucked away a truth about yourself, and it’s waiting for you to find it. And if that’s the case, I hope you know you’re not alone.
Finding that wind chime was like a gentle wake-up call, a reminder from someone who loved me dearly that my own voice, my own heart, matters. And so does yours.
Thanks for reading this far.
Love,
Emily