Being the Broken Toy

I hate sickness. I hate being sick. It’s because being sick is a revelation of inner weakness. It’s not our fault, most of the time. But that’s not really the point, is it, fault. It’s still weakness from within. And there is very little that I have less patience than my own weakness. I think it has something to do with being female and being tiny. I can’t escape the idea that there is a preconceived notion that because I am a small girl that I am less competent, less strong than others. It’s not just the coughing, the sneezing, the aches and pains of illness but the internal weakness of not being strong enough to work in spite of, to rise above, and to be greater than.

If there is a lesson to be learned it’s that sometimes trying to rise above or work in spite of is a pyrrhic victory. What is the point of winning a battle at the cost of the war? A warrior learns to pace themselves, they learn to expend energy wisely, and they know when to rest and when to heal. Rest and renewal is just as important as running and fighting. All in the right time, all in the right amounts.

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