Once upon a time there was a girl just like you or me. She had her good days but most were lackluster, never terribly awful but you could tell things were dimmed.
She cried more times she’d care to admit to anyone but herself and poured all her love into others’ empty canteens. Now this wasn’t always a bad thing, it made her feel whole—less numb—but people take advantage of such kind souls.
Her friends compared her to the sun, a comparison she never really minded and secretly loved; the sun was life, it was everything she had forced herself to believe she was. But on the inside she was dying, the glow in her heart dangerously close to being snuffed out.
And it was. Day by day, bit by bit, ever so discreetly but oh so prominent the light dissipated. Her body was cold, frail, so very very vulnerable.
We all know these stories, we know that the girl finds her knight in shining armor to save the day and ignite life into the story.
But this is not that kind of story.
Instead of waiting for someone else to make her whole like she had so many times before, the girl did something even more remarkable and beautiful.
She reached deep down inside of herself and found the leftover remains of all the love she had placed aside for others; and with those delicate slivers she stitched and pasted together a different kind of love for herself.
A vibrant, solid kind of love that no one else can take; it grows in strength as you grow and fills you with earth shattering happiness.
It was the kind of love that transformed this young girl into the heroine of her own story.
You see self-love does that to a person; reshapes the heart, opens the eyes, supplies wisdom to the mind.
And turns suns into supernovas.