Approximately three years ago, I found myself dragging my soul through the darkest corridor I’ve ever traveled through. It didn’t help that I created this mess myself. Somewhere along the line of trying to navigate life outside of my calling….
“Go to the office right now!”, he yelled at me. His faced radiated with redness, as his voice embodied the rage he held inside. There was no doubt that he was angry, and I, a mouthy-relentless-teenager was the object of his anger. “Get out!”, he yelled again, as he pointed his finger to the doors of gym.
I have a history of giving into shame. She’s a beast and my natural tendency is to let her have her way without putting up much of a fight. However, in that moment I felt something that I had not felt in a very long time…
As I walked away, I began to think about experiences that I’ve had since childhood. As a 3rd generation Mexican-American, I could only dream of people embracing my cultural uniqueness….
There was a time in my life when I literally hated the sound of my name. Somewhere, in the dark corridors of my mind, I created a story of shame. The story of shame included the sound of my name.