I used to whisper her name to myself over and over again. “Grace. Grace. My Grace. Grace.” Her name was a lifeline that I desperately clung to through the waves of grief and pain and rage and sorrow that swamped me. Her name was my manta.
Nothing creates a bigger tug-o-war in my psyche more than the desire to be seen arguing with the desire to hide. I’ve done my share of hiding in life – it has usually felt safer and more secure to stay tucked neatly on the sidelines