What is mine to give?

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's spring. How could I not look out at the world that's fresh and green and new and not feel that gentle stir in my gut, like change is coming? Like change is here. I feel like I'm standing on the threshold of an identity crisis — again. How many times have I been here? Five? Ten? A dozen? Sometimes it's scary, but not this time. This time it's exhilarating. And also peaceful. At times, identity crisis has felt like painfully peeling back weather-worn layers to expose ratty scars, or like cutting out infected wounds. But this time it feels like discovery and adventure. It feels like new growth, like blossoming, like reaching out and stretching new muscles I never knew were there. In the timeline of my story, this is the part where I'm finally coming into my own as a human, as a woman, as a writer, as a creative, as an intellectual, as a spiritual, emotional, physical and sexual being. I feel powerful, but not in an awkward, abrasive way. I feel comfortable with myself, even as I'm grappling with what that means — to be myself. For years I've been digging and clawing at myself, asking over and over again, "Who am I?" All the while half-afraid of what I'd find. For the first time, that inner dialog has shifted and I find myself asking, "What is mine to give? What do I have to offer my friends and family, my world?" Yes, my world. Planet Earth belongs to me as much as I belong to it. I am the future of my world, and I have a responsibility to take care of it. Hell, I am the present of my world. I am not a girl. I am a woman, and for the first time that doesn't scare the shit out of me. For the first time I don't feel the urge to apologize or ask permission to be the woman I was created to be. For the first time I feel like I've earned the right to stand in the space I'm standing in, to own it and use it — not just for myself, but for the good of those around me. What does that mean? Hm. I have no idea, but I have this aching feeling I'm about to find out. It's weirdly bittersweet, actually. Like I've stepped out of young adulthood (big girl adolescence) and I'm looking back at my own shell. I can never go back, you know? To those moments of raw insecurity that I've worn like a blanket for so many years. I've hidden under that immaturity, convinced I had nothing to give; I could only take. I can look back and remember what those moments felt like. I can stand in my old footprints, but I can't peer into the future with fresh eyes like I once did. Because I'm standing here now, looking backwards and forward at the same time. For a long time I've felt like I was playing house with myself, pretending to be a woman. Then suddenly I woke up and realized I don't need to pretend anymore. I don't need to become a woman, or even be a woman. I am a woman. I'm not afraid of myself — of my spirituality, my intellect, my emotions or my sexuality. I no longer feel like they're all separate parts of me that circle each other like dogs in a dogfight, each bristling with teeth bared. I've called a truce, and I'm in the process of making peace with myself. I'm learning to trust myself, to respect the many facets of my being and to protect and cultivate each of them while still allowing them to live in unity — in harmony. I'm learning to be comfortable with the knowledge that I am strong enough to be vulnerable. I'm learning how to trust my intuition, how to listen to that inner voice and decipher its meaning. And I'm learning to forgive myself when I'm wrong. I'm learning how to sit with myself without hating the silence and wanting to escape my own skin. I'm learning to stop apologizing for my opinions, even when they're not popular. I don't need anyone's permission to use my own brain. I'm also learning that I don't need to keep my emotions on lockdown or cage my empathy in order to prove my intellect and my "strength." I'm learning the true meaning of strength, leadership and power. I'm learning that love is not a weakness; it's a powerful motivator, and it's something I am full of. It's what fuels my fascination. It motivates me to learn more, to understand more. My emotion is what drives me to seek logic and understanding, to make sense of the world. I can't have one without the other, and I refuse to apologize for that. And for the first time I feel like I don't have to. I can just be because I am. And that's a good feeling.