#WhyIWrite

My grandma always lets me cry. Not a few tears and a midwest “there, there” pat on the back. Full on melt downs, measured by wetness on her shoulder. If her shoulder wasn't soaked, then I wasn't done crying.

It was that simple.

Not only did my grandma let me cry, she loved me more, because of it. My earliest memories of getting in trouble were always, ALWAYS met with the same message:

"Carie Mia, what are we gonna do with you?"

*hugs* *forehead kisses*

"We'll just love you a little bit more, I guess."

*bigger hug* *more kisses*

This is not to say I wasn't met with consequences for my actions. She was firm and held me to high standards. But I know this experience of love wasn't every human's experience on this planet. I know how special my grandma is, and how much her love of me when I was "bad" influences me to this day.

Not only did my grandma still love me when I was naughty.

She found a way to love me even MORE.

I write about things that hurt because, fundamentally, my brain embraces my failures. Neural pathways formed when I was so young that allow me to recognize my human failures as deserving of love. Love that expands not just when I am "good," but when I am "bad," too.

In case you never got this message. In case you never had a grandma who encouraged you to soak her shoulder with your tears. In case no one met you with messages of expansive love when you did wrong, please know:

You deserve great love.

Even when you've done wrong.

Especially when you've done wrong.

So go ahead. Cry it out. Soak your own sleeve if you have no shoulder to cry on. Then ask yourself, in a playful voice, "what are we gonna do with you?" Then pledge, "I'm just gonna love myself a little bit more."

Me & my grandmama back in the ‘90s, before I overplucked my brows and ruined them forever. Obviously.