Guest post by Tricia Karp of spokenyou.com.
Home. A word carrying connotations of comfort. Groundedness. Safety and security. A sense of belonging to my tribe. Something I took for granted until seven years ago when I crammed all my belongings into my little hatch back and drove for two days to the place of my dreams. Paradise. A stunning coast line, overlooked from the lush hinterland hills. Thick yet soft humidity, blooming frangipani trees and bouganvillea bushes bursting with hot pink and deep purple. A haven for spiritual seekers, a cave in which to hide and heal, heaven for creative types and those who want to live by their own rules, and a place where women who couldn’t get pregnant before just do. An old Aboriginal birthing ground.
Unbeknownst to me, I came here to heal. To shed old skins. To recreate and reinvent myself. To meet a wonderful, good man and become his wife. To birth a fiery, adorable little girl, with wild curls and spotty socks that don’t match anything else she’s wearing. To uncover my true gifts and shamelessly release them to the world.
Seven years. A magical number, imbued with a propensity for testing, reassessing, getting out the measuring stick and seeing how life shapes up. The verdict? My work in paradise is done. I am being called home. To the place I grew up. To the city. To do my work in the world. To go hard with my career. To give my darling girl more access to her much-loved grandparents and cousin. To offer her more opportunities than this little country town could ever provide.
I’ve longed for this. Life in paradise hasn’t always been easy. Surrendering to reinvention never is.
Speaking my need – to move on – terrified me. The thought of speaking up for what I wanted created jolts of fear about potential consequences. Would me wanting what I want mean the dissolution of my precious little family of three? It was excruciating.
“How?” I kept asking myself. “How can this happen? My husband would never move!”
I shoved it down until I couldn’t any longer. The muscles in my lower back seized. My body was telling me the time had come. My heart racing, I spoke my truth.
Magic happened. A miracle, perhaps. Amid a few weeks of intensity, tears, prayers and wild emotions, I held strong. I reminded myself “This is where I stand. I know what I know.” My husband, wanting the best for us, and seeing the potential for him to be much bigger in his life, concurred. We are moving home. To my home. It isn’t his, but with the three of us together, it will be.
Lucky me. The love I feel for my man right now is profound. It’s a deep, quiet respect. An understanding between the two of us, acknowledged with a momentary meeting of our eyes. Or an unexpectedly vulnerable and tender smile.
In myself I feel solid. I’m standing up straight and tall. A new confidence emanates from my very being. I know that standing up and stepping out, to speak the truth isn’t always honored. This time, mine was.
I’m going home.
|Tricia Karp is a prime time media darling turned convict turned communications coach. She’s here to unlock your true voice – not just tone and timbre, but the driving, urgent self-expression behind the words you say (and the words you don’t say). You can find her at www.spokenyou.com and @TriciaKarp.|