I feel like you have to be somewhat broken at the start of any journey that is real and true and drawn out. Definitely broken at the start of any journey that involves prison and being in love with someone in prison and lockdowns and sometimes weeks without talking and months without touching. You need to be broken in some capacity. You have to be broken, cracked, and missing pieces because any journey of the heart will inevitably take more pieces from you, leave you shattered here and there. Broken is surviving. Cracked means you have been chipped away at and you’re still here with maybe a little less light in your eyes, but a heart that is full, though the contents might not be all that you imagined when you were younger, naive, and had hope for a smooth ride.
I definitely believe that if I wasn’t broken at the start of becoming involved with my caged, beautiful bird, I would have never made it this far. I think to go the distance that we have gone the last 15 years, I had to be broken at the start of us and so did he. Our brokenness has kept us together, apart, together, apart, together, fighting for a connection that cannot be let go of. Together we have rearranged the pieces of our broken selves in such a way that allows the wind to pass through our pieces but not knock us down.
That is the beauty of broken. It cannot be destroyed, no matter how much the world tries. People often ask me how I stay. They ask me why I stay. They ask me if it’s worth it.
There is unparalleled strength in being broken, yet still being able to love to the degree that we love, and it is worth every ache that this life has to offer.