Kintsugi — Embracing Your Broken Bits

After all, we’re all just works of art in progress.

I was recently asked what would I embrace on my path to authenticity?

My answer — all my broken bits, that I’m now working to glue back together with gold. This is otherwise known as a stunning Japanese craft called Kintsugi which mends the piece so you make a feature of the broken parts. And in so doing, the piece not only regains its function, but becomes ever so much more beautiful and truly a one-of-a-kind item.

Because when you think about it, we’re all works of art in progress. And the more you break over time, the more beautiful you become. A ‘happy accident’ as Bob Ross would put it.

My authentic self, the one I’m slowly revealing on Medium (and truth be told is slowly revealing herself to me too) has lots of gold bits now.

I encourage you to embrace your own brokenness, all the bits you don’t want others to see, and create something even more beautiful from this point forward.

This is my Kintsugi story.

The cracks started to appear during my childhood. I was horrified. The other children didn’t seem to have them. What on earth were these things that appeared on my soul? Why me?

I thought they were dirty, shameful. I must have been a very bad child to have these cracks. I tried desperately to cover them up. I became an actress of the highest order and I would slap that greasepaint on as thick as I could and make like a TV princess. Perfect. Just like all the other children.

But at the end of each day’s ‘performance’, the paint that covered the cracks washed away. There were days I could barely look in the mirror. Or if I did, the cracks were all I could see.

As I got older, the cracks became chips and then shards. Hard, ugly, dangerous shards. I kept the pieces because, you know, who wants to actually lose all the bits of themselves? Even if they were ugly and dangerous. I knew they might be important, I just didn’t know what for or why. I put them in a drawer for safekeeping, just in case. To protect other people from their sharp edges.

The shards that fell, now gaping holes, became harder to hide. But I managed. I was almost totally hidden under the steely mask I now wore. The one that said you can’t hurt me, I’m invulnerable, untouchable, unreachable. Don’t even try.

I no longer looked in the mirror. The loss was too great to bear.

Of course, that mask came off at the end of each day too. And I was exhausted from its heaviness. The longer I wore it, the heavier it became. It weighed on my very soul.

And then finally one day, I forgot my mask. I forgot I was ugly. I carefully unwrapped my old broken bits and held them in my hand — they weren’t really dangerous or ugly.

They felt sad and neglected.

I turned and faced the sun and began to embrace who I was, even the broken bits. They were after all, still pieces of me. I cried for what could have been if I’d been a better child, a better person. Those bits had been precious once.

I crafted a plan to put the me of old back together. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

The Kintsugi reveal

Slowly, I coated each piece with gold and tried to remember where it went. It was an arduous, painstaking process. I wanted it to be perfect. To return to what was. But that wasn’t to be. The gold was too obvious. I almost gave up, thinking it would be too ugly. Some kind of Frankenstein.

But instead, I forged a new me. One that was no longer afraid to show the cracks and the broken bits. Why?

Those broken bits? They turned out to be the very best parts of me. The bits that let others see into my life — the bits where the light got through. The light I’d tried so desperately to hide, to cover. The light that could illuminate the paths of others.

I let others see that I’d traveled roads they’d been on too. That I too had sustained life’s damage. That they weren’t so alone — as I had felt.

When I’d finished, I peeked in the mirror. Just a peak in case it was too awful for words.

And what I saw, well, was beautiful.

It was me, but different. Better.

There was a kindness to the eyes I didn’t remember from before. Eyes that foretold of a welcoming soul for a fellow life path traveller. There was a glint, nay a glimmer of hope to the smile that smiled back.

She looked at me and said ‘welcome back. I’ve missed you. Please never hide again.’

*Hat tip to Leah Welborn for the inspiration*

Kristin Austin — Writer always! Mother forever. Wife until death parts us — altho some days that might be sooner rather than later ;) Lover of food, friends & cocktails. Recovering from a life-changing injury. Still learning. Hire me to build your business and/or revenue. Kristinaustin.com