Letter To Me: Abi Hightower

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Dear Abigail,

Thank you. Thank you for finding the strength to remember who you are. Remember when you were a child, and felt like you didn’t belong here, felt homesick for a place you couldn’t name, only describe? A place that appeared in hazy moments, flashes of light, the nights you would awaken in a jolt, grabbing a scrap of paper and pencil, frantically scribbling down the words that poured from you, poured through you, memories and clues of knowledge and wisdom that had slipped away from you in this life. Remember when you just…knew? You knew your power. You knew light.

Then the doubt crept in. You still knew, but the knowing caused so much pain. Intense, shattering pain. The faces you saw in your neighborhood, your classmates, you knew their pain and their joys without any words spoken or explained. Remember when you tried to put that knowing into words? To tell the adults what you knew, that the “bad guys” on the news weren’t evil, just needed light and love to be transformed, that your friend was being abused, that all the time you “see” colors but not with your eyes? Lying awake at night, trying desperately to fathom eternity, anxious to know what came after forever, and walking out to the living room to ask your parents to explain it? Remember how it didn’t make sense to them, and how you were told you were dramatic? Remember when you quit telling your truth? When you began to doubt you were real?

Your realness was replaced with well-intentioned religion, with rules, with kind people who did not understand you. Church was the answer, and you were a perfectionist, a “people pleaser,” so you conformed. You bent your brilliance into a Bible, your soul seeking a god that made sense, and this act was a perfected training program for becoming a victim. Church taught you how to comply, how to worry about everyone but yourself, how to answer to men and authority, how to give up your divinity, and you swallowed the lessons like bitter medicine, believing this path would save us all.

You anchored yourself to a narcissist, gave birth to vibrant children, and promised yourself that one day, when you were in your 30’s, this mess would make sense. Thank you. Thank you for speaking that promise when the Universe was listening. Thank you for holding on to hope when you were emotionally drained, emotionally abused, abandoned, and alone. Thank you for remembering that victimhood is not your calling, that you are the mother that births herself, the final Word that speaks and connects.

This letter is me pulling you back through time, wrapping my words around you, whispering to you in the tear-stained nights and exhausted early mornings, the days and nights when you didn’t know if you had the strength to raise the beautiful souls in your care or pull yourself from the madness around you. This letter sounds like a poem because we are the Word that becomes flesh. You remember now, don’t you? Thank you, for remembering with me. Peace and light on this journey, and in the years to come, this too will all make sense.