And just like that, another one’s over.
It’s been a whirlwind (aren’t they all, though?) of work and writing and work and writing and work and writing. But I’ve got to admit, I loved every second if it.
For months now, I’ve had the chance to write for work all week long. And I must say, it’s opened up a dam in my brain that I didn’t know was holding so much back. I write for work and then I write after work, and then I read and it makes me want to write and I write and it makes me want to draw and I’m on this whirling ride of creativity that won’t stop. And I don’t want it to.
With constantly dealing with feeling on and then feeling off, I’ve struggled to find any discipline to sit down and write regularly for years now. I’ve moved around, I’ve been sick, I’ve gotten better, I struggled with depression, I got back up, I was pushed back down and finally, this year, I settled. In my head, my heart, and in my body.
And now? My brain is on fire. And it’s a fire I want to keep stoking. I always knew this is what I wanted to do, every day, ‘til I die. But did I think it would feel this good? No, I never dreamed it would.
This summer, someone told me ‘I’m turning 30 this year, and for the first time I don’t want to celebrate a birthday.’ And I thought, gosh, I can’t wait to be 30. And 40, and 50, and 60.
After everything that’s happened, I’m just starting. And if it’s already good now, what’ll it be like after 10 years of taking care of myself, on my terms, surrounded by healthy relationships and the most loving people in every sphere of my life? What about in 20, when I have kids that are practically grown up, and I’ve done my darndest to break all the cycles and create a whole new reality for myself? What about in 50, when I look back and, finally, the good years vastly outnumber the bad?
It's exhilarating to me. I feel like a kid at Christmas, waking up to find presents under the tree, every day.
Keep it comin’.
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