Every woman I’ve met carries a story inside her. Stories about loss and love, of adventure in far-flung places or the longing to create new ones, of the ache to return home or to make a new one. Stories of shame and rage and desire – the kinds of stories that climb the walls just to make themselves heard.
Stories that carry whole worlds.
I carry them, too.
I’m a woman who has to sit on her hands to keep the stories in, because that’s where I carry them. In my hands.
Sometimes our words don’t know the stories they’ll tell until our hands let them speak.
Put them on the page. Speak them or sing them just to find a place of truth outside yourself. Loose them to the wind.
Sometimes the very brave act of telling gives a thing new meaning.
Make a new story.
Words welcome change.
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