Last night, I was having dinner with Boo. We were discussing goings on in our lives and some situations that had arisen in the week. I told her how I'd been talking to my man earlier and how I had realized something about my group of friends.
The ones who I lean on and rely on throughout my weeks are like me. We have all been abused in some way. Sexually, physically, mentally, emotionally, we are survivors of abusive relationships. Whether by family, friends, spouses, significant others, or complete strangers, we have survived the horrors that we have experienced.
I remember watching Lynda Carter's Wonder Woman when I was a kid. It wasn't about her bracelets or her outfit. My fascination was that she didn't have a male sidekick to protect her for the dangers. She was from a tribe of Amazonian goddesses who knew how to take care of themselves without men.
As an adult, I began to study Celtic mythology and the warrior women who would fight side by side with their men. They didn't hide within the walls of their homes. They painted themselves up and went to battle in an effort to protect what was theirs. They were fierce and blood thirsty. They led armies. They were so much stronger than we could have imagined.
They lived without fear. They charged headfirst into war. They fought brilliantly and valiantly without thought of consequence.
This is how I see my tribe of women...fierce and scarred. Our scars make us beautiful, unique, and special. The world may think our scars are horrific. However, what I see are marks of someone who tried to destroy us, but we survived. We could have curled up in balls and let the evils in our lives defeat us, but we didn't. We may have cried tears of pain, but our cries have become ones of ferocity as we tell our stories and share them with the world. Our tears have turned into the battle cries that summon other women who are like us. We build our tribe larger and stronger each time we refuse to stay silent.
When a dear friend reached out early one morning with a message, I shared my story with her. Not for sympathy or pity, but to let her know she is not alone. Then, Boo said, "Share my story with her," and I did. In the early hours of morning, a new warrior was born. She saw our battle scars and she became one of us.
As each one of us steps forward with our stories, we show the world and our abusers that we refuse to be silenced. They may break us. They may wound us. Wounds heal. And metal forged and reformed in fire only becomes stronger.
You are not alone. In the darkest night, when you feel most alone, reach out a hand and you'll find another reaching back for you.