It has taken two years to get here

It has taken me two years to get to this place of writing down parts of my story.

I am a little more open, I am a little more ready to talk, to express the feelings, tell the stories,
feel the feelings....
Life has pushed things around.  We are in a civil unrest because of the blatant disrespect for black lives, in a quarantine for a covid -19 virus.
I have been working from home since March.
It was a blessing for me.  I needed slow down time, because I never took anytime off.
I have to work, to pay my bills.  I worked to keep myself busy.  I worked because the children and my team didn't deserve to have a broken team, if I could keep myself together.
So I worked for that.  Everyday, I showed up for the children in my class.
I was so delicate and fragile.  The ground below me had been ripped up.  The foundation of my life of love for my son and all the sacrifices that I had made felt nil.  I wasn't sure who I was, and why the fuck did I not know my son was in so much pain.
Why did he hide from me?  That is the piece I am processing now as I am learning to live with my grief, my pain and my regret.
If I don't write, if I don't get these words out now...they will get stuck in my body, in my knee and I won't be able to move forward.
Healing is a journey, a process, and for all the steps I take forwards, I take one back as well.