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Last week in the Rise Higher Root Deeper workshop, we shared in the grief and goodness in “going first.”

Going first has been a big theme in my life, and in the lives of many of my dear clients– be it going first to therapy, being the first to get divorced, the first to come out, the first to leave the religion of your childhood, the first to ask questions or the first to have the courage to name the truth.

Let’s be honest, going first is fucking hard.

The below poem is about just that– losing your magic, but being willing to go first in finding it.

I don’t know about you, but I am willing to be the Fool if it means living free.

I didn’t begin with fences around my heart.
Barbed wire outlining the edges of closeness.
Trip wires, so subtle, telling me to dampen down before they can spot the muchness.
A rule book so long— I’ve spent decades studying it. I’m exhausted from beating them at their own game.
In the lighter days I danced like a fool in public.
I was as fragrant as a bed of roses, albeit without thorns.
I wrote letters of love daily to those looking in at the cool kids table.
I sat on both sides, unsure to which I belonged.

I didn’t know it was considered “immature” to be so free.
I’d wear hot pink oversized shirts and butterfly shoes one day,
and be sent home for a much-too-short mini skirt and heels the next.
What gives?
I’d overshare, but then be quickly forgiven as I painted rainbows and hung them in the classroom.
It’s cute until it’s not.
Like a fairy prancing in her own world, I’d say, “something good is coming, I know it!”
I believed it wholeheartedly.
A showgirl, except I wasn’t putting on a show.
I didn’t yet know trust is what makes one untrustworthy.
Earnestness bled from me and spilled over onto everyone I knew.
I’d raise my hands in worship and write poetry about the goodness of God.
I lived in truth.
Saturated in kindness.
Benevolent love all over me.
Inside and all around.

Good graces followed, mostly because I ran ‘em down— a compulsory chase.
I just couldn’t help myself.
I followed gratitude everywhere like it could be mine. And it was.
Jotting down for one whole year every.single.thing. that brought me joy.
I still have that journal, “The List of things I love.”
My prom photo, the one with the baby-fat cleavage that left me by 17 taped onto the cover.
I didn’t yet know (despite what they say) it's actually a faux pa to love yourself.
Tacky, really.
Overly sensitive and usually too loud, I didn’t know when to stop talking.
Thankfully, I hadn’t yet been made aware I should care.
I was free to be.
With delight I followed my golden cord; never once did I exhaust myself.
I miss those days.
This was before I was given the guard rails and zipped up into excellence.
Before I knew how the “pretty girls” should act— trust me I had to be put in my place a time or ten.
I was better before I was able to interpret the language of their subtle remarks.
Before I could perceive their exhaustion.
Before I realized no one was laughing when I was joking… they chuckled when I wasn’t.
Are they laughing at me?
I’m so funny but no one knows.
I started to see the space between us.
Soon enough, but far too late, I realized my place in the inverted world.
I know what their gaze means now, and it hurts.
I’m alone in my joy.
Isolated in my awe.
Frozen in my goodness.
I learned their secret language and the backwards truths they preach.
In the inverted world sincerity is a weakness and openness may as well be a crime.
Upside-down, honesty is worse than a slap in the face and curiosity only makes you vulnerable.
Once I understood, my starry gaze turned dull and flat like the face they are scared of.
I took their notes and became fluent.
I stopped dancing because the onlookers begged me so.
I dressed in black and beige— bleached my hair.
A cat eye to boot, because appearance is a tool and beauty is a currency.
I acted dumb and asked too many questions— I already knew the answers.
Mindful not to speak of myself or my joy unless asked.
Mindful of my appearance, and all the endless ways others may experience me.
And did.
I became neurotic and self-obsessed as to not seem so.
I fed the ego of the hungry ones; curating a self that would please them.
They hated me for it.
Too perfect, must be fake.
What do they expect?
This is what happens when you study their language more closely than they do.
I put away childish things; locked them up deep within.
Shame. On. You.
The Fool.
And now I can’t find myself.
Their ice box has me dead inside.
Generative joy, buried underground.
A waxy plastic plant in its place.
Slowly Mother God found me there, in the fertile soil of darkness.
She nurtured what looked dead and composted the rest.
That’s the thing about the Earth, the fungi, the mycelium.
Her logic is inverted.
God, the fool, where you least expect to find her.
And that’s the beauty of nature— not even barbed wire can withstand her time.
Spring is coming—
and as the leaves dance away I see one lone green sprout bursting forth, receiving the grace of the Sun.
This one is willing to worship first.

If you’re willing to go first, whatever “first” means to you, this is precisely the energy we are cultivating in the Rising Sovereign Leadership Circle.

A bold reclamation of your True Self.

I would love to chat with you about what might be possible if you leaned fully into this support.

Book a call with me now.

As my Grandmother Rose would say, Talk at you later!

xo,

Madison