I see you. You were in the room when I considered a tubal ligation. When I chose a “partner.” When I stayed. When I left. When I fought and when I fled.
You were there, repeating the mantra:
On my terms.
I loved and sexed on my terms.
I broke my heart on my terms.
I expanded and contracted on my terms.
Always knowing what to expect.
Baby, I know you only want to protect me, and I’m so thankful for the ways you have. I’ve been an unruly charge, so it couldn’t have been an easy job. But now—now—I need you to trust me.
I am not the eleven-year-old girl on Taylor Street.
Or the twenty-one-year-old seeking validation in marriage.
Or the twenty-five-year-old who definitely needed protecting.
Today, I am a thirty-five-year-old woman who can survive disappointment and uncertainty. Baby, I am a woman who employs wisdom, counsel, and self-control. Trust this version of me.
My masochistic tendencies have faded. I am no longer willing to put us through the worst because I’m afraid of hoping for the best. I understand now. I see it. Hope deferred made our heart sick, so you did what you had to do.
I’m holding your hand as I say this. I know it’s hard to hear and harder to comprehend. Dear misunderstood Control, my fiercest advocate, we cannot force any outcome. We must surrender now. We must accept that we know in part. We must be willing to hope.
You’ve done so much for me. You were brilliant in your role. You protected me so well. Thank you for your service to this internal family.
This next part of our journey will be uncomfortable—especially for you—but I’ll be here, soothing you through it.
P.S. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life. Or, said plainly: not getting what you want can break your heart, but a wish that comes true is life-giving.
