An argument against the spotless mind. (3.10.18)

My dad told me I should start writing more about my happiness. That it's hard for him to read some of my writing, me as his daughter, dealing with suffering. One thing I never got to see from my dad until I really grew older was how big his heart really was. My mom was always the emotional one. I used to act out like her in stressful situations. But my dad had emotions, too – they were just bottled up, looking out from the inside, observing the life outside the glass wall.

Home is in your body.

Maybe I struggle with this so much because so much of my happiness bloomed out of the ground that I planted the sadness in. It doesn't mean anything without the relativity of negativeness.

Isn't it strange to think just how much sadness has taught me?


I thought I was broken again. One little, ultimately insignificant setback, felt in the moment like an immediate shattering of my world. It always seems so encompassing in the moment. The thing is, it never ends up that way. And just like that, after a little more transparency – it's gone.

I remember how much my relationship to sadness is just a string of growth, a binding of power, the slow commencement of the few people who make your life as beautiful as it is finally coming together at one time.

Isn't it strange to cry - not because you're sad,

but because you know you're going to be okay?

Not because you want to forget,

but because you have begun mastering the art of letting go?

Not because you wanted it to be right,

but because it never was in the first place?

Because it actually ended up making you smile?


Maybe it feels strange because I used to cry all the time as a child. Now, I couldn't remember the last time I had cried. And even if I do, it's not because I'm broken.

It's because I've found relief,

growing like wildfire inside my chest.

And that may be the single most liberating thing in the world.

Home is in your body.

- how happiness is born


Sasha BerlinerComment