The braver I am, the luckier I get. - Glennon Doyle

That's when I stopped looking at Abby and thinking: What is my anger telling me about her? And started asking: What is my anger telling me about me? My anger was delivering a package with one of my root beliefs in it — a belief that was programmed into me during childhood: Resting is laziness, and laziness is disrespect. Worthiness and goodness are earned with hustle.
When Abby rested right in front of me — outside family-designated and approved resting times — she was challenging that root belief. She was activating it, unearthing it, bringing it into the light where I could see it. But unlike my root belief about honesty and fidelity, I didn't like this one. It didn't feel true to me. Because when I looked at Abby relaxing, my anger was almost a bitter yearning.
Must be nice.
Must be nice to rest in the middle of the damn day.
Must be nice to feel worthy of the space you take up on the earth without hustling to earn it every minute.
Must be nice to rest and still feel worthy.
I want to be able to rest and still feel worthy, too.
I didn't want to change Abby. I wanted to change my belief about worthiness.

I've got these conditions – anxiety, depression, addiction –and they almost killed me. But they are also my superpowers. The sensitivity that led me to addiction is the same sensitivity that makes me a really good artist. The anxiety that makes it difficult to exist in a world where so many people are in so much pain – and that makes me a relentless activist. The fire that burned me up for the first half of my life is the exact same fire I'm using now to light up the world.

I am beginning to unlearn what I used to believe about control and love. Now I think that maybe control is not love. I think that control might actually be the opposite of love, because control leaves no room for trust — and maybe love without trust is not love at all. I am beginning to play with the idea that love is trusting that other people Feel, Know, and Imagine, too. Maybe love is respecting what your people feel, trusting that they know, and believing that they have their own unseen order for their lives pressing through their own skin.
Maybe my role with the people I love is not imagining the truest, most beautiful life for them and then pushing them toward it. Maybe I'm just supposed to ask what they feel and know and imagine. And then, no matter how different their unseen order is from mine, ask what I can do to support their vision.
Trusting people is terrifying. Maybe if love is not a little scary and out of our control, then it is not love at all.
It is wild to let others be wild.