Lynne Shayko

When we meet again you bite your lip.

By trying to do everything perfectly, you are giving power to the person who sets the standard.

Why doesn’t my mother love me?

I remember one of my last moments with a favorite hospice patient. Close to dying, his frail form was almost skeletal, his muscles had formed tense knots, and each breath was a labored, painful wheeze.

Grieve the mistakes and wounds of your past.

I speak quickly, then wait For your cautious response. Your deliberate phrases Are steeped in compassion And brimming with truth.

Instead of beating yourself up, laugh.  Laugh at all the messiness and awkwardness of you.  

You feel incredibly tired, like you could sleep for days straight. Those fifteen minutes consumed every bit of your strength. 

Look in the mirror and see someone who is fighting a small war, but still getting out of bed every day and not giving up.

“Whenever you are creating beauty around you, you are restoring your own soul.”

You’re the kind of girl men fall deeply in love with.

You know dark nights and beautiful days. You talk to the sun and clouds when loneliness echoes within you.

Look behind yourself and marvel at how you walked through burning coals to land in the grass on the other side.

I want to tell you that your body is a beautiful vessel that holds you, that keeps your pain inside, and keeps you safe.