When it comes to gratitude, my words fall short all the time. It is a conscious state of mind, a consistent posture of the heart, a sharp remembrance that moves me to tears, shakes me at the core when I acknowledge all I’ve been given, the gifts that have been purposefully placed in my life, my very breath, the realization that my days are known, my life is held, my existence is a heavenly-woven miracle that will never be abandoned.

I am forever the girl at the edge of breaking who quickly rushes to hold it together, to keep the pieces intact. And I perform the happiness, drape it over me like a cloak, I do it so often, and for so long, that I can hardly tell the difference anymore. Thankful for friends who witness the shedding, who are unafraid to see and touch the bone of a truth that might scare them a little. But they stay and stay and stay, choosing me, when I can barely choose myself.

C. S. Lewis wrote about this—the self-protective lovelessness: “There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.