Southern Storm

Have y’all ever noticed we ask people to apologize for parts of themselves we’d never ask nature to apologize for?

We tell people to quiet down because they’re “too much,” while standing on our porches listening to the slow, rolling thunder of a summer storm.

We admire its power.

We wait for the rain.

We don’t ask the sky to be quieter.

Maybe we should stop asking people to be.

So here’s to everyone who’s ever been told they were “too much.”

Southern Storm

Have you ever known the sky to ask permission to storm?

No?

Me either.

So why do we expect people to?

I am a southern summer storm.

Loud, then soothing.

Chaotic, then calm.

Inconvenient, yet refreshing.

Keeping you awake.

Keeping you alive.

I loved the hell out of you.

And maybe…

just maybe…

I loved it out of me too.

Your secrets stacked like bricks.

Blame became a language.

Silence, a weapon.

Screaming, a shield.

Still, I asked for honesty.

For the darkest parts of you.

So I could stay.

So I could understand.

My questions were not daggers.

They were bridges.

My accountability was never meant to be chains.

It was freedom…

placed in your hands.

My voice was never too much.

It was love.

Raw.

Unashamed.

Unwavering.

Unconditional.

You said love was conditional.

My storm was too heavy.

My heart was the problem.

You tried to quiet my thunder.

You tried to shame my rain.

But storms do not apologize for breaking the silence.

They do not apologize for showing up.

Neither do I.

I was never hard to love.

Just impossible to control.

If you’re new around here, pull up a chair.
You might also find a piece of yourself in Barefoot & Rebuilding, Where I Chose to Plant, I Rose, and The White Flag.