It takes a great deal of sadness to be me. And a great deal of optimism. And therein lies the dichotomy of a summary of me.
Why does it all matter? My pull to write my story. Maybe my full force timid life will inspire myself and others to keep gathering joyous and grateful sunrises.
I'm sitting here looking at my increasingly aging hands in terror of never becoming who I'm supposed to become. 33 is the year I've become obsessed with face creams, vitamin c spot fading creams, not dying of a heart attack, and trying to cut chemicals out of my life. Having my son has never made me want to live so much in my entire life. My heart aches with how much I love my son that it changes me for the better every day. I know I'm blessed in a lot of ways, but trying to rectify my heart and my head when it comes to my relationships in my life is another story. A long story. I want my son to know my story and in the process, I want...to move on with my story I suppose.
How did I get here? I ask myself this all the time. The head says that not planning takes on its effect rather swiftly and drags you down. The heart of me says it's never too late if you're still breathing and healthy.
What is the lasting impression I leave on my children?
Do I break the chain of the Phantom Tolbooth doldrums...a resounding YES from both my head and my heart.
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