It's so nice.
This is my home. And I am gladly right here in the center of it all. It’s so nice.
Incense is burning— Japanese. The expensive kind I used to save for special occasions. Atop a flat but plump rock from the Buffalo— a candle is lit. When it gets nice and melty it reveals her message to me, “smokin hot.” Makes me smirk every time— Hers is the only approval that seems to matter these days. I’m sipping tea at 9:35 am on a Friday. It was imported from across the sea, cradled in a handmade bowl I paid extra to have shipped. Maybe I should be working right now… but the chimes feel like a prayer and the low hum of the heat reminds me I am right here. It’s nice.
I’m feeling tender for no reason (besides the dreams I’ve been having). The cool February light is especially bright from the snow. It reaches past the leaves of my plants to kiss the textured walls. I’m so glad I didn’t sand them down to nothing. It feels human. Someone made this house with their hands— someone certainly an Ancestor by now.
This is my home. The only camera facing outward. A craftsman bungalow. A dream home. The numerical address feeling right was an odd specificity in my search. “Seventeen, eighteen”. It’s cadence is charming and sweet. This house showed herself to be The Sun even when I was unsure and depressed.
She gave a resounding YES, despite him telling me it was nearly impossible. The house was mine, so I moved in. Simple as that. Now, she has a pink dining room, and an 8 foot red table because that’s how I like it. Her 9 big trees were also a selling point. All of it has been here much longer than me, roots deeper than mine. I trust she can hold the truth.
I understand why, when they look in from the outside, they feel as they do— and God, do they tell me so. Perpetually. Maybe I would too if I didn’t have the whole story.
I’m “one in a million” she said— lucky to have made it out somewhat sane. It’s never as cute as it looks on Instagram. And even though people wish it, they don’t really want to know. No one wants to know the truth, not even me.
It’s no lie. Joy is easy now— the one thing they are right about. I’ve always known life is easier for me. That’s true. I’m lucky. Or is that just what I’ve told myself? Is there a difference? I’m not sure. I know believing it feels nice.
And I also know this: gratitude overflows from me, for this life. This good good life. And not because the incense was expensive or because the work is easy. It’s because they taught me to perform well. And to run, mistakenly so. No one would save me, they said, not even when they should.
So I turned all of it into gold.
They call it positivity… but it’s really just a simple knowing: nothing the future brings could possibly match what it was before— before I could leave. Before I could choose. Before I was real. Before I saw it for what it was. For who they were. Who I Am.
Freedom has a price. And I paid it tenfold.
Sometimes I still wonder if I’m making it all up. Misremembering. (That’s what it will do). Make you hustle, confused. Make you so starving for love you mistake wishes for the truth. That’s why I have two folders on my desktop. One full of her text messages (just in case hope begins rushing too fast). The other a form I filled out for my therapist. Cold and factual, it says what it says.
I know he knows that I know.
I know he knows that I know.
I know he knows that I know.
I wrote it as many times as I could, trying to make myself believe it. I burned that journal. I don’t need him to know what I think I know. Truth is. And I’m done protecting us from it.
These are the things you must do. To remember. To stay close to your knowing. To keep your guard up and protect the good. Keep the receipts. The rest is trash. Receipts are proof there was a price to be paid.
The thing they don’t see as they snoop in my windows: there is grave cost to exit a game like this. To make your own life, alone.
I am willing to pay, continually, to not play even a day longer.
The price is steeped with judgment. Filled thick with shame. Both silence and truth are so damn expensive.
Why don’t you call your mother, she misses you. What about their feelings? What will people think? It’s giving hyper-independent whiteness, a privilege to cut off your family. Do better. Must be nice. Don’t you think it’s a bit selfish? You shouldn’t talk about this online. People will think you’re defective. Why can’t you just go to family therapy? You know, holding grudges won’t liberate you. Don’t you want to forgive? These are your parents.
Decades walking uphill silently. They judge because I make it look so effortless.
It wasn’t easy, but I cut myself free from their death strings so I could dance just for me. I freed my voice from their silence so I could speak. They aren’t wrong.
It is nice.
So I refuse to prove why I deserve to be here. I refuse to protect their image, or mine. This is what it is. This is where I came from. This is what I know.
What people will think of it all? Well, that’s not my business anymore.
I am going to sit, minding my business atop this thousand dollar crystal mat in my fancy house. Savoring my surrender, waving my white flag. I am done playing. Instead I am warming my bones luxuriously. Resting because now, I can. And it is nice sipping my fancy tea. Basking in this winter light as it brightens my porcelain skin.
I am glowing from this baptism of grief, purified of their secret shame.
This is MY home. This is MY body. No strings attached. Without guilt, I chose this. I’m choosing this. I paid and will continue the price for this. Many times over, just to be able to move freely and shine just for me.
This is my home
and I am gladly
right here
in the center of it all.
It’s so nice.
💘
I wrote this late winter, as I was letting my cells soak up a new, slow and easy pace.
I’d set myself up to take the month mostly off work (a privilege no doubt) and I reaped all the benefits in art and poetry and writing. My creativity was at an all time high— and it wasn’t being used for anyone else’s growth. There was nothing to package up and sell. Nothing to tie a bow on and say “see, this is how good it can be.”
Nope, this was all for me.
I don’t know yet how my personal writing sits into my work, but I feel hopeful to begin sharing pieces of my heart here. I finally feel ready-enough to protect my heart as people read what I really have to say. Even if it adds no value to their lives at all.
Earlier this week I taught a workshop for business owners, 💘Vision/Cast (watch the replay here) and spoke about the shadow of us artists, healers and visionaries— and how we often forsake our authentic expression for the benefit of “helping” another. We self-erase as we use our creativity to uplift, and eventually lose our spark.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.
Maybe the greatest service is being honest, being humble, being ourselves. Maybe being in service to creativity itself is service enough.
Dancing my way into new shapes,
-Madison
P.S. I was on a few podcasts this summer. Check‘em out!
💘 Queer Theology Podcast: Living Your Liberation - Few people know that when I indoctrinated myself into Christianity as a teen, I did so to save myself from an abusive home. On Queer Theology I talk about why God led me into, and out of, the Evangelical church, along with centering joy, queer aliveness, and liberation.
💘 Rooted Feminine: Asking Good Questions - Marissa and I chat about why curiosity is key as we liberate ourselves from limiting beliefs and become the guardian of the goodness in our lives. From boundaries to resiliency, there isn’t much we don’t talk about here.
💘 Shift Happens: Not the “Right Kind” of Christian - I sat down with my high school youth pastor who is now leading his Florida church to support queer and trans kids. This was such a special conversation.
💘 Along with being nominated for FOUR international decade awards from BYCA this past month, I’m also thrilled to share this 38-minute podcast interview with my mentor, Julie Parker on the Inspired Coach Podcast.
I enrolled in BYCA’s program at only 23, and share my wild journey over the last almost decade as a coach. In this episode, I open up in a raw and honest way about my healing journey, experience with autism, queerness, money, and the ups and downs of having a healing business.
I could not be more honored to share this with you.