As an introvert, a shy person, and the daughter of a woman I used to call “Worst Case Scenario Mom” (for the apocalyptically negative outcomes she would weave over the most mundane of activities), I have spent most of my life not feeling very good anywhere.

But just recently, I have begun to notice that these days I always feel good at home.

Good like: you actually outran ‘it’ in a very serious game of schoolyard tag. That synchronized all-at-once knowing of soul, body, and mind that you are beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt safe, because your fingers are contacting ‘base’ as ‘its’ hand tags nothing but the air where you used to be.

Good like: gut-level certainty that the probability of a positive outcome is greater than the probability of a negative outcome.

Feel, as in emanating from your innards out to your awareness;                        thrumming some thread only poets can identify;                                                      trusting in your bones before your brain even knows what’s happening.

I. Feel. Good. Somewhere. Finally.

It’s like water when you need it, the sweetest thing you will ever taste.


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