I woke up on a Saturday -- I sat on the couch and ate a clementine, I watched the sky change from dark to pink to blue. I thought about disappointment, how I feel when I think I've said or done something careless. I read the article about burnout -- the one everyone's spoken about this week -- and found myself in every line.
I've practiced, in moments when I feel I'm at my worst, asking -- what are you afraid of right now? Because the things that I fear most live wild inside of me, and I work so hard to keep them there.
And so.
My fears are this -- that after years of studying, I won't become a counselor; that I will risk everything in my career for an ending not guaranteed; that the babies we wait for might not be sent our way; that -- even worse -- I'll become isolated and bitter and angry in the waiting; that I will lose myself and push away everyone else.
And so.
Amidst the goals and resolutions and daydreams of early January, I find myself now hoping only that I can be more gentle with myself. That perhaps, it's not that all is lost on a terrible day, but only that I need a long shower with lavender scrub and almond oil, or a cup of tea, or a tall glass of water, or music without words. Things that can't fix everything that feels broken, not by a long shot. But they're certainly a start.
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