Stories


The melancholy that travels with me during the dark and fathomless months of winter and thrives in coldness and isolation captivates the old stories and feelings and traps them deep down in my body and bones. Stories of moments and feelings that weren’t recognised, acknowledged or really seen.

There are days when they try to catch my attention by filling my lungs with dull sadness,
on other days the only thing I want to do is to unravel the emptiness from my heart to get rid of the pain.

“You shouldn’t have been left alone.” 
“It must have been hard.” 
“There should have been someone there with you.”
"I see you."

Just like that, hearing those words from someone else who has given you enough space to share your story, moments you have carried with you for years often dissolve into nothingness,
like raindrops when they touch the concrete and turn into stars, 

and suddenly you feel a bit lighter.

There are stories that need only your own acknowledgement and can be released from your body when you write them down,
watch how they burn, turn into dust and stop existing.

Some of the stories you carry with you no matter wherever you go and whatever you do.
You can’t release those before the time is right, no matter how hard you try,
because maybe there’s still something you need to learn from them
and until that realisation they will travel with you. 

Letting go doesn’t happen in a linear timeline and there is always more layers to shed. 

There are also days when there is not room for thoughts anymore,
just thousands of beginnings that don’t seem to lead anywhere and are hard to grasp when you can’t stay still without waves of anxiety washing over you. 

Sometimes you are not even sure what stories you are carrying with you before you hear them from someone else who has gained a glimpse of your soul and acknowledges the pain you couldn’t put into words. 

And then there are those moments when you recognise your stories mirrored back to you from someone else’s eyes.


Letting go of the stories makes me afraid that I am suddenly naked without any protection,
so rather than letting go
I would rather keep them hidden.

But if left unacknowledged those stories always grow and gain power,
and the open space is filled with deeper sadness, frustration, anger, guilt and shame.

And eventually on some day, without forcing,
the time will be right and those stories come grumbling down,
one by one,
word after another, 
and I will make a wish:

may I be 

open to see with my heart,
rooted in my spirit,
grounded into my center,
acknowledging with compassion what once has been,

may I have enough courage

to reach out for support,
to dream my own dreams,
witnessing the shadowlands with love and acceptance,
willing to feel the sunshine after traveling in the darkness while searching for the meaning,

and may I feel

safe wherever I choose to rest,
safe enough to be me without the stories I tell.