It costs less. It’s convenient. It’s unconventional.
But that’s not why I’m growing out my grey hair.
I’m 32 years old. And, for a long time, I believed my anxiety stemmed from my early experience with our oldest son. The truth was, it was rooted much deeper. And my racing heart was something I’d grown accustomed to as a kid, adolescent, and young adult. Single, married, with child and mother. Anxiety had been part of my every day since my birth day, it seemed. The reality had to be stated out loud.
I have been afraid my whole life.
And it gave me grey hair before the age of 18, during a personal all-time high of nail-biting, stomach-aching fear. And I have desperately covered (both) up every 6 weeks since then.
Three decades, it took. Of fearing myself, my history, and ultimately, my son’s emotionality. Getting well meant getting comfortable in my own skin. Something I’d never felt before. And it required courage. Something I’d never had before.
Until I sat on the other side of a one-way mirror in therapy with my son. The side other than the one I was trained behind.
The truth is that with enough light in both rooms, a one-way mirror actually becomes a window. Both sides are visible. That’s the way I now live. And practice. I have to write what I know. And this is what I know.
My grey hair isn’t my crown. It’s my anchor. It reminds me where I come from.
That we can turn fear on its head. Literally. That here grows the bright white of release. The light to all that was dark in us. That here grows marbled, not model, beauty by which our weakenesses become our uniqunesses.
Because when we lead with our limp, we are stronger than what took us down in the first place.