Holding on to your anger is like holding your breath for a long time. You feel the discomfort building until it becomes painful. Then, you let it out and it feels like breathing again for the first time. Learning to forgive is like that. It’s like breathing again for the first time.
I’d rather let conversations run dry than risk pouring my heart out to unwilling ears.
I’d rather not be heard than not be understood.
I’ve begun to learn that courage is not always wrapped up in some great deed of heroism.
Sometimes, the choice to be yourself, unapologetically, is an act of courage all on its own.
“I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won’t tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn’t change the fact that they were upset. And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn’t really change the fact that you have what you have.”
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.”
“I don’t much care where –”
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”
― Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.”
“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”
—J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows