Friday night, I found myself alone after hanging art downtown... little masterpieces from our students now glowing in the district office. It should have felt like a celebration, but instead I was tired. I’d spent the day defending myself in a dozen small ways, feeling like I had to explain who I am, what I do, why I choose the things I choose. By evening, I was worn down.
On the way home I craved a burger, heavy on the
onion. Odd craving, but I didn’t fight it. Later, scrolling mindlessly, I
landed on a recipe for French onion soup... those sweet, slow-cooked onions
melting into broth that feels like comfort itself. And then, soaking in the
bath, I stumbled on a video of a woman talking about peeling back the layers of
an onion, uncovering the ways fear and lack had shaped her life.
Three onions in one night.
And that last one stopped me cold.
Because when I peel back my own layers... beneath fear, beneath the need to
prove or defend... I always find the same truth: I have been enough all along. I
have always had what I’ve needed.
The universe doesn’t run on my timelines or
within my budgets. It answers in whispers, in synchronicities, in cravings for
onions I don’t understand. That very morning, I’d asked the universe to show me
love. And love showed up all day... in the arms of my children, in the hugs of
students who don’t usually hug me. Love arriving where I wasn’t looking for it.
And yet, by evening, the world was so loud I
almost missed it. I almost forgot. That’s what life does... it convinces us we
must defend, explain, strive. But the onion keeps teaching me: peel back one
more layer. Beneath the sting, beneath the tears, sweetness is waiting.
This month has been heavy. As a mother, I
worry how this season of life will settle in my children’s hearts. I don’t want
the hard days to become their story. My therapist reminds me: this is only a
moment, not forever. And I try to believe it. Some days, that belief is the
only thing I can carry.
This lesson about the onion hit me all the harder because lately, I’ve felt
like I’ve had to defend myself in ways that sting. You know those moments ... when you work so hard, or give so much, and somehow it still isn’t seen, or
worse, it’s picked apart? It leaves you raw, questioning, wondering if you’re
the problem.
But that’s just another layer. When I peel it
back, I see the truth: their story about me is not my story. The core of who I
am is not defined by someone else’s black-light inspection of my worth. I don’t
have to carry every criticism or assumption. I can let the onion sting, wipe my
eyes, and keep peeling back until I find the sweetness again. Because it’s
always been there.
Maybe the lesson is this: I don’t have to
defend myself to the world. The universe is already speaking, already wrapping
me in synchronicities and small mercies. My only task is to notice... to taste,
to savor, to trust the slow caramelization of my own life.
What are the layers in your life? The sharp ones, the sweet ones, the messy layers and the ones that bring tears to your eyes? Can you find a way to feel enoughness through them all? Can you find a way to make them your layers alone?
