Fearfully and wonderfully made
I was 12 or 13, sitting at the kitchen table in a fluffy purple sweater and jeans. “I’m so sad, and I don’t know why!” I lamented to my mom.
“Well, honey,” she reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “I think a lot of it has to do with hormones right now.”
I hated that answer so much. I hated thinking that my mood and personality could be so altered by just a different balance of chemicals in my body. What does that say about who I really am? The “me” I thought of as my actual self was some vapor-like combination of mind and soul, and my body was just a thing to use to move around in the world, and mostly to overcome. It was the “flesh” that was mostly in the way of me being who I was supposed to be.
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