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Instincts

 Instincts are a funny thing. Sometimes, instincts are natural and immediate, the way you jump back if a spider falls out of the sky or the way a mother fiercely protects her child. But sometimes our instincts are developed over time by experience and habit. Pavlov’s dogs began to drool when the bell rang because they learned that the bell was equal to a treat. So what happens when trauma informs our experiences and our instincts have been shaped by that trauma? How do I relearn that relationships are healthy and good, when they’ve so often been toxic and dangerous? How do I relearn that trust is essential and not foolish? How do I relearn that vulnerability isn’t weakness, that watching someone I love leave for the night doesn’t mean they’re leaving forever? How do I relearn that tired doesn’t mean disinterested; away doesn’t mean cheating; space doesn’t mean rejection? How do I relearn that I’m worthy, that I’m enough for another person to love?

My instincts, the learned ones, protect my heart. But they have created a lonely life. Finding the real instincts, the diamond of truth underneath all that rubble, the reality of what is good and isn’t, discernment, the confidence in herself to not break at the whisper of doubt, often feels like an obstacle too big to conquer.

Love can feel too big to conquer. Because it is. Love can’t be conquered- it means allowing myself to be conquered, to put myself at its mercy. It requires the same leap that faith requires - the willingness to believe that there’s a safe landing when you step off the cliff. It requires trust, vulnerability, patience, time, space to breathe. How do I relearn that the bell toll doesn’t mean destruction- today it can mean healing?

How do I relearn it?

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