You Don’t Know How Loved You Are

I recognized her when I saw her, although I had never actually met her.

I recognized her as one of my own. 

We were on holiday.

In an attempt to lift us both from the pits of anxiety and depression we had found ourselves in, my partner carefully selected a teashop in the mountains to take us to. We hoped this would help shift the clouds hanging over us. It had become apparent that our holiday wasn’t for relaxation, but was more an opportunity to catch up with ourselves. Our minds had gone slightly haywire once given the time and space to breathe, and the processing weighed heavy.

She — the one I recognized — was running the teashop alone. She was big-boned and tattooed with cropped hair and a heavy expression. I found myself shrinking in her presence: She looked as though she might bite if provoked, so I hung back, observing from a distance.

Based on appearances alone, I made the assumption that she was gay. I put my arms around my girlfriend in the hope that she would soften, seeing that we were like her. 

My attempts to soften her worked somewhat: As she approached our table with the tea we’d ordered, she smiled.

“How are your scones?” she asked brightly.

Looking down, I noticed a couple of thick scars on her arms. Here was evidence of something much deeper stirring within her.

Once she walked away I looked down at my own arm, still bandaged from a recent attack by my own hand.

And it was at that moment — seeing our shared pain — that I realized she was hidden beneath the sharpness of her shell. The hard expression and strong physique were suddenly less offensive. Instead, I saw her sadness and vulnerability; a lost soul who was likely in desperate need of a humongous hug.

It’s difficult to describe this next part, but I’ll give it a go.

As I watched her, seeing into her soul, I was struck with a sudden clarity: I could see how loved she was.

I saw her lovability: her perfection and worthiness. I saw it despite her efforts, over time, to construct a self that repels others, both physically and energetically. I no longer bought into it.

I could see how powerful she was; how innately free her spirit.

At the same time, I could see how oblivious she was to all that I was seeing: she likely couldn’t see or feel it at all. 

I thought to leave her a note saying something like: 

‘I see you. I see your pain and I see your strength. Thank you for still being here. I love you. You are more loved and valued than you could possibly ever know.’

I never left that note. I suppose I felt I’d be crossing a line. 

However, it did leave me thinking: If I could see her lovability and perfection, might I also see that in myself? If I can see another’s wholeness, then it must be true that others look at me and see the same — how lovable and worthy I am, just as I am. 

To see somebody in their wholeness is to see them through the eyes of Source. It is to acknowledge the light and beauty of their very essence. 

And so, I wonder…

If I can turn the gaze inward, toward myself — to see myself through the eyes of Source — how might that change me? It might just help save me in this lifetime. For I’m sure that I too am more loved than I could possibly ever know.