what i wrote after my client left

There is nothing wrong with you.
There is no wrong or right— only cells and stardust, and histories and twisted ankles, and learning and beauty and how you have been loved and how you’ve been hurt.
There is singing along to the radio, and freckles, and fallibility, and oppressive forces that constrict, and experiences of awe that bring you to your knees.
And sleepiness and pain and longing, and laughing ‘til you cry and wanting to be seen and hiding, and alone and cherished and never alone, and known by the old-ass trees that shiver in the wind right as you walk by so that it snows leaves.
There is so much grief and there is smiling mischievously at a kid in the supermarket.
There is childhood and dreams and forgetting and remembering, and getting lost and feeling lost and falling apart, and rage and devastation and taking chances, and tripping on sidewalks and needing a snack.
And spine and lungs and crying and giving, and losing and death and alive, and not knowing and possibly everything else.
There is regrettable haircuts and deep sighs and every day absurdity and the ghosts of math tests, and dancing barefoot and dancing with strangers and dancing in the mirror, and what you said you wanted to be when you grew up, and being afraid, and hope and embarrassment and summer and stomach aches, and what you believe in.
There is nothing wrong with you; there is no wrong or right. There is all of it, and whatever else, and nothing, and the rest. And it is welcome.