I once read a memoir by a woman who spoke of depression. She described in detail spending months in bed, crippled by woe. As I read, I recall a great sense of frustration, anger, at her weakness. It is only now as I look back that I see that the feeling I was denying myself was envy. I desired her ability to be fragile- to feel, to break, to weep. I had never allowed myself the opportunity to indulge in such frailty, though I had dreamt of it. What would it be like to let that heavy tide wash over me rather than fighting against it? I had been trained at a young age to deny feeling, to stand tall in the face of despair and push onward.
Above all other gifts, my most formidable has always been my ability to endure.