I used to be proud of my tough shell.

It was a toughness born of persistence. I kept falling down, and I’d get back up.

I understand the pathology that led my to early adolescent choices – choices that led me down a long road of abusive relationships, poverty, struggle…and worse.

Year by year, through much therapy and prayer, I have slowly put a life together.

The tough girl is gone, though.

This woman can knuckle down and power through when I need to – those rough hewn survival paths are forever etched in my soul.

On the outside, I can appear whole. Still. Together.

I am not.

I am broken.

Oh, most days, I do well. I have my routines, and they carry me from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.

Like the beautiful Kintsugi pottery, each little crack from my shattered life has been painstakingly put back together again.

Until.

The past came harkening last week. It wanted to dig, and it wanted to put a microscope on each and every hard fought mile this weary soul has endured.

My first instinct was to defend myself.

Then I realized I cannot.

I don’t have to.

Although whole, I am a more fragile vessel than the one I was when I endured abuse, torment, pain, and adultery. And so much more.

I don’t want to go back to the days where I was so hard that the implosion that finally wrecked me left me shattered.

Piece by piece, loving relationships and a loving God have put me back together.

I’m whole.

I’m broken.

I know my limits.

And just as I’d set a fragile piece of pottery on a high shelf to protect it, so I must protect myself.