I used many times to touch my own chest and feel, under its asthmatic quiver, the engine of the heart and lungs and blood and feel amazed at what I sensed was the enormity of the power I possessed. Not magical power, but real power. The power simply to go on, the power to endure, that is power enough, but I felt I had also the power to create, to add, to delight, to amaze and to transform.
This man sits on the side of Empire Road in South Africa.
Instead of panhandling he provides book reviews.
He collects books, reads them, and provides reviews for people passing by.
If you like the review, he will try to sell you the book.
This is how he makes a living.
Now, I am 28 years old, and I would be lying if I said I am done growing. Self-love is a long and arduous road, but it is beautiful one, I promise. I don’t pretend to know it all. Everyone is on a unique path, and I am by no means claiming I have the antidote to depression. But I do know this:
There isn’t a day I don’t wake up and physically have to decide that I am more good than I am bad.
This is not a chore; this is a gift.
My mother once told me something I will never forget: “When you have a negative thought about yourself, imagine yourself as a baby. A source of awe and wonder. Joyful, blameless, full of love. This is who you are at all times, Sierra. This is your true self.”