The Truth Only Takes Two Minutes

I've gotten a lot of things wrong in my life.

I've ignored good advice.

I've acted out of spite.

I've held grudges and refused forgiveness.

I've avoided tough conversations.

And every one of those choices came from some part of me—some internal energy—that believed it was protecting me.

But it wasn't.

That advice I refused to take?

It could have saved me years of hard work and heartache.

That spiteful behavior cost me my integrity—something that's already hard to maintain in a world built for vengeance.

Those grudges and forgiveness I withheld meant missing out on relationships that might have been joyful.

And those tough conversations?

The price I've paid is exponential.

Because there are so many truths that have gone untold.

All because I couldn't let myself feel two to five minutes of emotional discomfort.

Two to five minutes.

Two minutes of a rapid heartbeat.

Two minutes of shallow breathing.

Two minutes of a creaky voice.

Two minutes of red cheeks and chest.

Two minutes of wondering if telling the truth will mean I am no longer lovable.

Just typing that description brought it all upon me.

But already I can feel it slowing.

My heart is coming back to normal.

My breaths are deeper and longer.

My voice is quiet, and I've had a drink of water.

The fear is still there—the one that whispers that telling the truth might cost me love.

But my integrity is intact.

Which means I can look in the mirror and recognize myself.

I know I've spoken the truth, hard as it may have been.

I can trust myself.

And when I can trust myself, I can love myself.

So I will be loved again.

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