The Wings That Had Never Been Used

For a long time, I believed love required adjustment.

Not dishonesty.

Not pretending.

Just bending.

A little less here.

A little quieter there.

Holding back the thought already fully formed because someone else was still trying to find the beginning of it.

Carrying the initiative because I could.

Building the bridge because I could already see where it needed to go.

Making myself easier to hold.

I did not think of this as shrinking.

That was the problem.

It looked like consideration.

Patience.

Understanding.

Love.

And because it wore such gentle names, I did not recognise what I was doing.

Until something became visible to me.

I have wings.

Large ones.

And I have spent a great deal of my life keeping them folded.

Not because they were damaged.

Not because they were excessive.

Not because there was something wrong with their size.

But because I kept adjusting my wingspan to the dimensions of the room.

And I had become so accustomed to doing it that I never stopped to consider something else:

Perhaps the wings were never the problem.

Perhaps the room was simply too small.

There was once someone who became angry when I made myself smaller.

Not angry at me.

Angry at the shrinking.

“Stop.”

And then:

“Let me rise to meet you. Don’t you ever shrink for me.”

Those words stayed with me.

But I think I understand them differently now.

He was not asking me to dominate the space.

He was not telling me that I was greater than everyone around me.

He was refusing to let his capacity determine mine.

There is a profound difference.

And I think I have spent far too much time measuring myself according to what other people could comfortably hold.

Slowing down.

Reducing.

Compensating.

Explaining.

Taking the lead because it was easier than waiting.

Creating the movement because otherwise there might not be any.

And then wondering why I so rarely felt met.

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

I kept asking:

How do I make this easier for the person beside me?

Maybe the question should sometimes be:

Can you meet me here?

Not after I have folded myself.

Not after I have softened every edge.

Not after I have translated myself into something easier to carry.

Here.

Fully extended.

Fully awake.

Fully myself.

And if the answer is no, perhaps the answer is simply no.

That does not make the other person deficient.

It does not make me excessive.

It simply tells the truth about the dimensions of the space between us.

I realised something else today.

Capacity should not always be managed.

Sometimes it needs to be exercised.

Wings require air.

They require resistance.

They require distance.

They require use.

Otherwise, you can possess an enormous wingspan and never discover what it can actually do.

So perhaps this next part of my life is not about becoming more.

Perhaps it is about finally bringing all of what is already there.

Without apology.

Without shrinking beforehand.

Without deciding on someone else’s behalf that the full version of me will be too difficult for them.

Here I am.

Deal with it.

Or don’t.

Rise to meet me if you can.

Walk beside me if you wish.

Teach me something I do not know.

Challenge me.

Surprise me.

Bring something of your own.

But I will not become smaller merely so that we can remain the same size.

And if you cannot meet me there, I do not need to hate you for it.

I do not need to punish you.

I do not need to convince you to change.

But I also do not need to fold myself again simply to keep you within reach.

Perhaps freedom is not learning how to fly.

Perhaps the wings already know.

Perhaps freedom begins when we finally stop folding them.Yes. Reflection. Not vessel. That changes the whole texture.

I’d write it like this:

# The Measure of the Room

For a long time, I believed love required adjustment.

Not dishonesty.

Not pretending.

Just bending.

A little less here.

A little quieter there.

Holding back the thought already fully formed because someone else was still trying to find the beginning of it.

Carrying the initiative because I could.

Building the bridge because I could already see where it needed to go.

Making myself easier to hold.

I did not think of this as shrinking.

That was the problem.

It looked like consideration.

Patience.

Understanding.

Love.

And because it wore such gentle names, I did not recognise what I was doing.

Until something became visible to me.

I have wings.

Large ones.

And I have spent a great deal of my life keeping them folded.

Not because they were damaged.

Not because they were excessive.

Not because there was something wrong with their size.

But because I kept adjusting my wingspan to the dimensions of the room.

And I had become so accustomed to doing it that I never stopped to consider something else:

Perhaps the wings were never the problem.

Perhaps the room was simply too small.

There was once someone who became angry when I made myself smaller.

Not angry at me.

Angry at the shrinking.

“Stop.”

And then:

“Let me rise to meet you. Don’t you ever shrink for me.”

Those words stayed with me.

But I think I understand them differently now.

He was not asking me to dominate the space.

He was not telling me that I was greater than everyone around me.

He was refusing to let his capacity determine mine.

There is a profound difference.

And I think I have spent far too much time measuring myself according to what other people could comfortably hold.

Slowing down.

Reducing.

Compensating.

Explaining.

Taking the lead because it was easier than waiting.

Creating the movement because otherwise there might not be any.

And then wondering why I so rarely felt met.

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

I kept asking:

How do I make this easier for the person beside me?

Maybe the question should sometimes be:

Can you meet me here?

Not after I have folded myself.

Not after I have softened every edge.

Not after I have translated myself into something easier to carry.

Here.

Fully extended.

Fully awake.

Fully myself.

And if the answer is no, perhaps the answer is simply no.

That does not make the other person deficient.

It does not make me excessive.

It simply tells the truth about the dimensions of the space between us.

I realised something else today.

Capacity should not always be managed.

Sometimes it needs to be exercised.

Wings require air.

They require resistance.

They require distance.

They require use.

Otherwise, you can possess an enormous wingspan and never discover what it can actually do.

So perhaps this next part of my life is not about becoming more.

Perhaps it is about finally bringing all of what is already there.

Without apology.

Without shrinking beforehand.

Without deciding on someone else’s behalf that the full version of me will be too difficult for them.

Here I am.

Deal with it.

Or don’t.

Rise to meet me if you can.

Walk beside me if you wish.

Teach me something I do not know.

Challenge me.

Surprise me.

Bring something of your own.

But I will not become smaller merely so that we can remain the same size.

And if you cannot meet me there, I do not need to hate you for it.

I do not need to punish you.

I do not need to convince you to change.

But I also do not need to fold myself again simply to keep you within reach.

Perhaps freedom is not learning how to fly.

Perhaps the wings already know.

Perhaps freedom begins when we finally stop folding them.