For years, I believed charm could overcome dislike.

If I was warm enough, gracious enough, spiritually generous enough, the people who dismissed me would eventually see me clearly and revise their verdict.

It took getting sick on a pilgrimage in France, locked in a hotel room while the sacred ceremony happened without me, to understand what I was actually doing.

I was handing people the authority to define me. And then being devastated when they used it.

The moment I stopped seeking the verdict from someone not qualified to give it, I could breathe again. Literally. The chest opened. The breath returned.

Fear tightens the body. Love expands it. The breath always knows which one is running the show.

Whose voice are you carrying that was never yours to carry? I wrote about this in depth this week.