I have an itch.

Not on my skin, though sometimes it feels that way.

Not in my bones, though my body aches from it.

It’s a pulse, a deep urge with no name,

a constant presence.

A longing.

I have an itch—

to write,

to read,

to learn,

to scream,

to cry,

to run,

to hide.

I have an itch—

to help,

to teach,

to grow,

to connect.

I have an itch to climb under the covers and stay there.

I have an itch to invite everyone I know to the same place at the same time,

to get everyone on the same page—

to learn how to feel comfortable with the fact that will never happen.

I have an itch to jump 40 steps ahead,

because I can see the grace waiting there.

I have an itch to stay 10 steps behind,

because it feels safe that way.

I have an itch—

to be big,

to create,

to shape,

to mold.

I have an itch—

to stay small,

to stay in my lane,

to stay—

because it feels safe here.

I have an itch to connect hurting women.

To teach the tools that help me.

To stand with confidence in what I’ve learned,

and what I know.

I have an itch to admit I have no idea what I’m doing.

I have an itch to do it all.

And an itch to be done.

I have an itch—

to learn to live with it.

To begin again.

To stop.

To stay.

To go.

And somehow,

to hold all of it at once.