The Feast I Owe Myself

I’m almost 55. Almost. And how do I feel?
Old. Weathered. Like a tree that’s stood through too many storms, its bark scarred and joints creaking in the wind.
Two new illnesses. And a dark humour that clings to me like ivy—persistent, unkillable. Not that I’d want it to be.

I’m standing at the edge of something vast. A precipice, a crossroads, a doorway I’m half afraid to walk through.
Self-discovery? Self-love?
That word still sticks in my throat. Self-love. It sounds like arrogance, like puffing out your chest and shouting into a mirror.
But maybe it’s something quieter.

Maybe it’s finally stepping into my own light. Planting myself at the centre of my life instead of shrinking into the corners.
Maybe it’s tending to the garden I’ve neglected—watering my own roots before they wither away.

Four kids. Four marriages. I’ve played the faithful servant at life’s banquet, smiling as I carried plates for everyone else, content to live off scraps from the table.
But not anymore.

It’s hard, though. Patterns are like vines; they wrap around you without you noticing.
One pang of sympathy, and suddenly I’m hauling another drowning soul to shore, gasping as I slip under the water myself.

But here’s the truth: my soul is cracked.
Not broken beyond repair, but fractured, like old stained glass that’s been soldered too many times.
I can’t keep pouring from this cup when it’s already leaking at the seams.

Healing is hard.
But clinging to the very things that hollow you out? That’s harder.

I know I’m not easy. But I didn’t come from easy.
That’s why I’m building a table of my own now, and serving myself a full plate—maybe for the first time.
Feeding my own hunger before I starve.

And as I do, I can feel the ground beneath me shift.
What once felt like a cliff edge is becoming a bridge.
One step, then another.
The wind no longer knocks me back; it fills my lungs, lifts my chin.
There’s something ahead of me worth walking toward.

Maybe you should too.

xxx