Read This Letter In The Waiting Room

You are not white walls. You are not a tall, leafy plant in the corner. You are not four shirts hung in the closet. Two pairs of shoes. A shelf with a candle. Dusted. Shadow-less. Picture frames, filled with prints, arranged in a particular formation. Minimalist. Simple.
 

Breathe.


When they hand you a clipboard, and you see the small, empty boxes you are to check off,  pause.
 

People are a lot of things. You are the fullness of life, and you cannot be summed up by a sheet of paper. You are not your symptoms. Waiting rooms, intimidating as they are, are just rooms in which you wait.
 

You are headed in the right direction. These are the steps to freedom. And you don't live here. If you feel uncomfortable, good. Waiting rooms are not your home. They are, ultimately, not where you belong. You belong out in the world. You are needed out in the world.
 

If none of the clinical words feel quite right and you can't fill in the blank following “reason for appointment:” you can write “I am not simple. I am not a list of symptoms. I am here to wait.”
 

Because there are people on the other side of the clipboards whose job is to make you feel understood. You will walk away knowing that you are not daunting. You are not too much. You are vast and blue and beautiful.

You are a creation like no other. You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the whole ocean in a drop.

And you are okay.