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Letting it Go


Living a life of hope & wholeness and sometimes writing about it. 


Letting it Go

Elizabeth Moore

"No one is going to see this, Elizabeth. Just write it. You're going to rip it up anyway." I had to tell myself this over and over again. 

It was either the gorgeous weather or my slightly absent mind that made me wander into this courtyard with a pen and paper. I had been a wreck long enough. Numbness only brings relief for so long, you know? It was time to get real.

"But ugh, who wants to see my real? My real is nasty and shameful. My real isn't cool or desirable or even moral."

I had ignored this shameful feeling for so long, and it was finally time to squash it. But I had to acknowledge its existence. I needed to call it out for what it was. 

So that's what I did. I wrote and ripped, wrote and ripped. The ripping wasn't for shame of my written craft, but because my shame stared me in the face. 

Writing and ripping was a huge step--it was a way of letting it go. 


Diary writing is weird. 

Believe it or not, I don't do much diary writing. I don't even like the word diary. Journaling is a much safer word. Journaling sounds like you've got it all together or you're figuring it out. Journaling sounds like maturity happening before your very eyes. 

But diary-writing sounds like something an emotional and confused pre-teen girl does when she can't comprehend feelings. Both are good. Both are basically the same thing, depending on who you are. 

For me, I journal. I don't diary.

Diary is weakness. Journal is maturity. 

But sometimes we need to diary. We need to acknowledge our weakness and entrust it to the hand of God. 

So I sat in the courtyard--writing and ripping, writing and ripping. It was so vulnerable and I hated it. But loved it at the same time. It hurt so good.

I kept looking over my shoulder, as if someone was going to find me out. Funny how that habit of shame still threatens to creep in. 

But I still wrote it all down. I drew all my thoughts to one place and ripped them up--literally watching as they crumbled to pieces. I got in the car and drove away, praying they would stay crumbled. 

Letting go of shame is scary. Because even though He tells me that He can handle it, sometimes I don't know if I can bear to acknowledge that it exists.