As I sit here on Saturday night, a rare evening where I'm not at work or out and about or editing, I've had time to read a friend's blog, think about my own recent struggles and cry. Really cry. The kind of cry you stifle because you've only known how to be strong for so long. The kind of cry that pours out and you're not even sure where it's coming from or whom it's directed at. The kind of cry that reminds you that things fall apart...and if you're really lucky, you are able to read someone's words that equally reminds you that things do get better.
My husband often scolds me for pouring my heart out to those who don't return the favour. But when I stop and think about this one crack at life we are given, what's to lose but a little bit of pride in return for telling someone you love them. What the hell is pride anyways? Who's right? Who's wrong? Does it make a difference when you're one foot into the grave and one day, we're all gone and all that's left are the words that were or were not said?
I've learned to do the right thing, even if it's the hard thing. I've learned to make the first move, even if the other person doesn't deserve or reciprocate it. I've learned that everyone has their own struggles and the power of a loved one's comforting words are priceless.
I've learned and I've learned and with every goodbye, I've learned.