Day 71 of 365: I am not broken – a poem

I am not broken.

You try to “fix” me,

To plug in different variables

Attempting to solve the problem

Of my discomfort.

I pray your intentions are pure,

That you want to help me.

And yet…

It seems you want me to “feel better”

Because you are uncomfortable

With my darkness and pain.


I feel deeply.

And this is hard for you.

You see me ache

And you want to stop it.

You see me cry

And you want to make me laugh.

You see me temporarily paralyzed

Merging into the sofa

And you want to get me up.

“Go for a walk; you’ll feel better.”

“Splash some water on your face.”

“Do this. Try that,” You say.



Don’t try to fix.

I am not broken.

Don’t try to solve.

I’m not an equation.

I am stronger than I’ve ever been.

And don’t leave.

Don’t wait for the storm to pass

For when I’m easier to be around.


Stay with me.

Sit with me.

Hold me.

There’s nothing you can say

To change the way I am.

All you’ll do is temporarily turn the switch to “off”

Making the present moment easier for you, and perhaps for me.

But I didn’t sign up for an easy life.

And it will inevitably click on again, sometime in the future,

Where I’ll feel into this depth,

And have a backlog of pain.


So let me feel.

It is my purpose.


This. Is who. I am.

And it’s not to say that I’m owning a title

Of depression

Or borderline personality disorder

Or general anxiety disorder

Or any label.

I do not call these mine

As they are words.

Simple words

Handwritten on wooden signs

Forced into the earth

Pointing at me.

I am not my diagnoses.

Just as I am not my name.

I am what is behind these words.

I am what the words point to.

Countless words

All aimed inward

Pointy sides toward me

Attempting to define

What I am.


“Why are you crying? Why are you so sad? I thought you were better. I thought you were healed.” You exclaim.

Healing is a continuous journey rather than a destination.

And I am here for more than my own pain.

I, as a light worker, am here to shift the collective consciousness.

I am here to change how we feel and how we act with our feelings.

I am here to bridge the communication gap

Between those who experience darkness

And those who don’t.


I watch musicians who are clearly in emotional turmoil,

And the words escaping their mouths are ridden with their pain and depth.

These are artists who, when heard, can also be felt.

Their lyrics cause our skin to tingle and hairs to stand erect.

Their melodies invite tears behind our eyes,

Even if we can’t put words as to why.

Why on earth would I want to numb that?

Who am I to take that from them?

Their darkness and their state of being

Yields beautiful art

That helps others.

They too are catalysts.


I connected with my younger self in a meditation about Divine Play.

I saw her, clearly, blonde curls and a missing front tooth.

I looked at her, heart raw and open and receptive.

She walked up to me,

Wisdom and love in her eyes,

And placed her right hand on my left cheek.

She stared into me

And said

Very simply

“We have work to do.”

My heart began to weep.

Tears of relief.

Sweat of a marathon run.

As if a download had just finished installing.

And everything clicked.

There is nothing wrong with the fact

That I don’t go out partying

And I don’t enjoy “fun”

In the typical or normal sense.

I am here to work.

To process.

To heal.

To help.

To express.

Call it workaholism or obsession or rigidity.

I call it dedication.

I call it listening to my inner guidance.

I call it fun.


“You take life too seriously,” you say to me.

I sit with my heart and mind open to you,

Ensuring receptivity to your opinions,

Because I care about what you have to say.


My heart and mind and body are flooded with waves of unprocessed pain

From the collective of humans

Who’ve felt unsafe to feel,

Or who’ve drowned when caught in the undertow.

And yet I,

After my years of work

And research

And learning

And diving inward

And silence

And listening

And channeling

And clearing,

And healing,

I sit in stillness.

Holding space for your discomfort.

While simultaneously processing

Deeper pain than you may ever know.


I know that the intensity of my pain

Is uncomfortable for you.

I know part of you wants me to feel better

For me

And most of you wants me to feel better

For you.


I ran from pain my whole life.

Avoided it.

Ignored it.

Numbed it.

And it found me.

I had an awakening,

Which I thought would yield bliss and freedom.

I thought correctly,

As it has.

And that open space of bliss and freedom and allowance

Is a perfect holding cell

And processing center

For giant downloads of pain.

I’ve learned to release judgment around it.

Pain doesn’t have to be bad.

My feeling deeply isn’t indicative of a mental illness.

My feeling deeply is a super power.

For as I sit in meditation

As a tear obeys the laws of gravity,

Caressing my face,

That one tear

Holds more pain

Than you may ever know.


I used to envy you.

I used to crave normalcy,

Whatever that meant.


I’m thankful.

I’m blessed.

I’m blessed to have the capacity

To be flooded with thoughts

And feelings

Of darkness

And death

And decay

And immorality,

And to still go to the grocery store

And smile at the cashier.


You see…

I am strong

In a way that differs from your definition of strength.

You may think I’m dwelling.

You may think I’m taking on too much.

I care not for your labels or diagnoses.

I will listen

And I will not judge,

As I know you mean well.

But you can never truly understand where I am,

Just as I can never truly understand you.

But we can accept one another.

And I ask that you

Suspend disbelief

And trust that

I know what I’m doing


I am healthier than I’ve ever been


I am not broken.

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Some days, I paint. Other days, I write. And rap. And tell stories. And do comedy. And doodle. And [attempt to] bake. And, one week out of every month, I merge with my sofa and sob about mortality and things like the existence of air and how we can't live without it and how utterly claustrophobic that is to consider. I'm relatively particular. And this is a place for me to share ALL the quirks.

2 thoughts on “Day 71 of 365: I am not broken – a poem

  1. Hello Jen,

    I hope this email finds you moving forward along your journey. I guess that is a proper thing to say after reading your blog. Actually, not really sure what to say, and maybe I should only say; Thanks for sharing your soul.


    Dan ​

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