I’m grateful for…

Me. All thirty years of him. I wake up to him. I feed him. I clothe him. I sate his thirst. And when the day is done, I rest him, nurture him, and dream his dreams. And even though everyone in life relies on someone other than themselves, there would never be me without me.

The love I feel for myself is a million things at once, but it is also only one thing: Acceptance. I have grieved the man I denied and bargained against. I hated him with anger, and I buried him with depression. And now, I accept the man I grieved myself to be.

I wouldn’t trade my story for an alternative. I wouldn’t take back the dead, even if it meant they were still with me. And I wouldn’t take back my past, even if it meant rewriting regret.

I’m grateful for me, because I understand me. I respect me. I see what I’ve done, good and bad, and welcome me back home to my heart every day. I share breath with this body, and I love who I’ve become.

And I’m good enough. I’m more than enough. I always have been. I’m grateful I get to be what I’ve always wanted to be: Mine.