[I wrote this 4/25 and sat on it, decided to share it anyway]
Six months is one hundred eighty two and one half days.
Yesterday, while sitting outside on my deck, I realized that six months ago, I turned 29.
Six months ago, I struggled to get out of bed.
Six months ago, I bailed on a birthday party because I was convinced everyone there hated me and only invited me because they felt sorry for me. Anxiety told me so.
Six months ago, I finally went to the doctor and said — I can’t do this anymore.
One hundred eighty two and one half days later, here I am. I still fall apart. I still question if I am good enough or worthy. I still have days where I lock myself in the bathroom at work and cry. There are days that I struggle and I come home and go straight to bed. There are days where I feel like I could burst through a wall with how happy I am. If you are reading this and waiting for the leaf to turn and for the light to shine on your next 182.5, it’s coming. It will happen. I promise.
What in this world will happen in the next 182.5? I turn 30 and I can hardly believe it. I don’t feel any sort of crisis about it, honestly. I feel a lot of peace. My 20’s were largely spent figuring out what in this world I am doing. Guess what? I still don’t know. I had this idea that my job would define me and that’s not how it turned out, really. Maybe I should be doing something else, but I don’t know what that would be anyway. But, my job doesn’t define me. I don’t find who I am in the place I make money, and I’m okay with that. I find my my worth in the faces of the people I love and in being the bright spot in their day. I find my worth in places I never thought to look.
Even though I really have no idea what I am doing, I feel more at home in my own life than I ever have. I think that 30 will be a good look. I’m not in a hurry, I know that. I’m just enjoying it. Whatever ‘it’ is — I’m loving it.