I was feeling it. Pure sadness — the inescapability of it plowing through the softest part of me. When you’re in that kind of painful place you’ll try to climb the walls to get away from it. You want it over with.
“Love your sadness. It won’t last long.” A friend texted me late at night. I caught it just as I was turning off my bedroom light.
Love my sadness?
Love my sadness.
Sadness, I love you.
Let me give you a kiss, instead of my fist.
You’re heavy, but you’re so honest.
I should give you more credit. More space.
I’ll be grateful when you leave —
but I know I’ll be grateful that you came.
A metaphor: You know when you catch a cold, and part of you is just a bit grateful for it? The cold itself sucks. But it gives you a reprieve, an excuse to stop, curl up, wind down — it demands a compassionate response.
And if you’re smart, you milk it. Take the day off, order in, watch the entire “Breaking Bad” series on Netflix, sleep… a lot. And while you’re sleeping off your fever, you get the sense that you’re burning off months of built up stuff — and sorting out some internal things. You get better, you put fresh sheets on the bed, and you’ve got a new attitude.
Same thing with sadness.
Sadness gives you the chance to be still with the most tender place of your being.
Sadness is an opportunity to deeply appreciate your losses and your longings.
Sadness brings you eye to eye with your desires.
Appreciation is fuel for change.
Love gives your sadness the energy it needs to move through you… so it can move on.
By loving your sadness, you’re respecting your truth.
And freedom always follows truth.