A Somewhat Organized Chaos

•September 1, 2015 • 1 Comment

A functional disaster

Organization scares me. No, that’s the wrong word. Organization intimidates me. In the way a math final might intimidate someone who really didn’t study or a foreign language would someone visiting the origin country for the first time. Organization is a ticking time bomb of frustration and failure for me. And I’ve accepted that.

Over the years I’ve come to terms with my organized chaos, accepted it even. I am a disaster. A disaster who manages to survive, pay her bills, keep her condo from being infested by God knows what, keep clean clothes, keep all important documents in order and where they should be, and ensure my child is always prepared and well-equipped for day care.

But brush my hair in the morning? Well now, that’s asking a bit too much.

I am chaotic. I know this. It’s taken me many years to accept it, but now I’ve full embraced it. I’m a tornado of a girl. Emotionally, physically, mentally. I will bowl you over in all aspects. If you can accept that, then perhaps we can be friends. If not, batten down the hatches as I pass through and you’ll be just fine.

My mess makes me who I am.

My fashion sense only goes as far as a mannequin tells me (or friends via frantic iPhone photos of myself in the mirror with various outfit combos that usually get rejected as quickly as I’ve sent them). Accessories are foreign objects, and while I own a few they are repeated often as venturing beyond them would surely result in an epic disaster of crisis proportions.

My emotions are as wild as my unbrushed hair. That’s a major part of my chaos, my disaster.

I can’t control them. I think I used to be able to. Let me put this into perspective for you.

In my marriage, and subsequent relationship, I spent years (probably a good decade) tying my hair back in a ponytail when it wasn’t brushed out accordingly and “fixed.” If I didn’t have time to make it look “normal” I tied it back. My ex at the time used to complain when I wore my hair in a ponytail, stating I was taking the easy way out to make it look OK, that I should take more time to make myself look good, to make myself look decent.

Truth was, I was tying back the real me.

Ask anyone who sees me on a regular basis now: I rarely tie my hair back. Rats nest or not, it’s out. It’s me. It’s my chaos. It’s a representation of me accepting who I am and how I am instead of trying to tie it back and keep it hidden and proper. Sure, I’ll tie it back occasionally, but that’s more to keep it from my eyes or because it’s too hot or I’m running … I’m no longer ashamed of the chaos, the disaster. In fact, I love it.

Just as I let my hair be wild and free now, so too are my emotions. Saying how I feel and when I feel it is a huge part of me now. Why should I try and brush my emotions straight and proper if that’s not what they were meant to be in the first place? That might seem a bit “deep,” but you get what I mean.

I’m a somewhat organized chaos. I’ve accepted that. Finding someone else who accepts that is going to be the challenge. My condo is a liveable mess. A comfortable collision of random piles and clean surfaces. Laundry is always in various stages of “being done,” the kitchen is always half clean, and one day (I swear, one day) I will take out my recycling. I will.

Life isn’t meant to be straight-lace and proper. Where’s the fun in that? I’m not saying to go the complete opposite, but what I am saying is to be comfortable in your imperfections. Be comfortable in your chaos.

I am.

Allowing Myself to be Happy

•August 20, 2015 • 2 Comments
Finally, a rainbow...

Finally, a rainbow…

When you’ve been unhappy for a certain amount of time, being happy feels rather foreign. And the interesting thing is that you don’t really realize you’ve been so unhappy until the idea and prospect of happiness is presented. It’s kind of like a slap in the face, a kick to the groin, a real wake up call.

That sudden moment where you think, “Shit. I’m happy.”

Then realize, “Shit, I’ve been really unhappy for quite a while.”

And when you embrace that happiness everything kind of melts away, but only for a second (at least for me), because then I question the happiness. Is it real? Is it going to last? What happens when the feeling goes away? But do I deserve to feel this way? Am I just drunk?

Honestly, all those thoughts flew through my brain recently. And fairly simultaneously, too. Being in my brain is hectic, I tell ya.

I’d forgotten so completely what it was to feel happy, relaxed, calm, and in the moment that when it finally happened I wasn’t even sure what to do with myself or even that I was reacting correctly. Was that a smile on my face or a grimace? Why did I feel twitchy? Why did I feel like I needed to get away, and yet at the same time I never wanted to leave. It was all very schizophrenic.

See, I think I’d gotten to this point where I’d accepted I just wasn’t going to be THAT happy. I wasn’t worthy of it. I wasn’t deserving of it. That over the years things I’d done and said had lead me to where I am now and that life simply had the rest of my functional and OK (but not happy) future planned out. And I was alright with that. Because I was learning to just be OK all over again, after all.

And then suddenly I realized I was happy. I smiled so much recently I made myself cry. Dumb? Perhaps, but I’d not smiled like that in months. Months. I didn’t understand the feeling, the emotion, the physical change in my mind and my mood. It scared me, and yet I wanted more.

At the same time, I’m waiting for it to end. It’s a horrible thing to be happy and yet have this thought in the back of your mind that it’s sure to end soon. I wish I didn’t think like that. I wish I had the confidence to embrace it totally, to own it, to know that it’ll be mine. And mine for as long as I make it and keep it mine.

Yet, I’m waiting for it to be taken away.

I try to kick myself when I have these thoughts (my hamstrings are a bit tight though), because I know I should be happy. I can be happy. I deserve to be happy…. Even typing it I don’t fully believe it. I’m in shock still. Shocked at the situation that’s lead me to be happy, and waiting for it to all come crashing down.

I also question all my actions now. Will what I just said change everything? What if I do this? What if I act this way? Will it mean all the happiness will stop? Will I mess it all up? Am I doomed to do the wrong thing again, and again, and again.

It’s kind of a horrendous way to be happy.

Yet, I’m relishing in the moments I do have that are bringing a smile to my face (when I can silence all the questions and doubt in my mind and just exist in that moment). A genuine, real, from my toes smile. And I think it’s noticeable that the smile is real, that the emotion is wholehearted and sincere. I am finally able to let go, to enjoy, to be me. And it’s making me happy.

I need to focus on those moments and not concern myself with the future. I need to allow myself to be happy.

I don’t own a plunger

•July 27, 2015 • Leave a Comment
This is what I should have. I do not.

This is what I should have. I do not.

I’m an adult.

Let me correct that: I’m supposed to be an adult. By definition, and by the age indicated on my license, I’m an adult.

As I sit here just before midnight on a Monday night waiting for my sheets to dry — because maturity has clearly not taught me to put them in before 9pm — I know that just down the hall, my toilet is clogged. I do not own a plunger.

I’m a mother. By my birth date I am a full-fledged adult. I have a career, bills to pay, a mortgage. I buy groceries and plan meals. I chuckle at young girls in clubs that get stupid drunk by 10:30pm and have to be escorted out of the bar. I buy multivitamins, and make sure I have fresh water at all times. I make sure I have foods from all the food groups in my kitchen at all time.

But, I don’t own a plunger.

So, how adult am I, really?

Then I realize I’ll often eat cereal for dinner (after Owen’s gone to bed, of course). Those all-the-food-groups foods are for him, not me. I try my best to watch my nutrition (especially now as I’m trying to once again get myself back into shape and a body I’m happy with), but sometimes I succumb to the Miniwheat charm or perhaps the Tostitos with Boirson cheese spread… but I digress.

I look at my parents and I wonder: When do I get to be as mature as that?

Then I also remember my father still starts food fights to this day, and we laugh like teenagers at camp most weekends when we talk about God knows what topics and drink together on the deck … but that might be a topic for another entry.

Does maturity come when I finally purchase that plunger?

Adulthood means being prepared for anything and everything, right? This non-existent plunger has really made me stop and take stock of everything (plus I need a distraction from wanting to use the toilet I can’t use since Owen is asleep and I can’t exactly rush out to the local hardware store to purchase one at midnight…).

How adult am I really when I only take my garbage out once every few weeks?

Truth be told, I let it pile up on my balcony since I’m three flights of stairs up and I just can’t be bothered to drag it down with me until I’ve got about 5-6 big bags that I then have to trek up and down in one evening of hellish choring that leaves me breathless and cursing my inability to live like a real human being. Same goes for the recycling — but hey, I get brownie points for the actual recycling, right? I mean, it gets done eventually.

I don’t own a plunger.

It seems like such a simple, nondescript item to have in one’s home — yet I don’t. I checked: I have a fire extinguisher. I have a can opener, I even have a melon baller (who the fuck has a melon baller but not a plunger?). I own martini glasses I’ve only ever used ONCE and it was for a desert, not a drink. I own diamond-shaped wine stoppers. I have a miniature hammer. I even have a ton of those little furry sticker feet you put on furniture so they don’t scratch your floor. I have all the medicine and antihistamine you could ever hope to find in my bathroom cabinet, and I even have a cat de-fur thing.

Yet, I don’t own a plunger.

I can’t help feel this is a metaphor for something … unclogging the shit in my life and not being prepared for it at all … but maybe I’m just tired (and not quite the adult I thought I was). And I think my sheets are finally dry.

It’s OK to not be OK

•July 25, 2015 • 1 Comment
Take time

Take time to not be OK

I think one of the worst questions anyone has ever asked me is: “Are you OK?”

It’s a horribly open-ended question that’s terribly loaded and can be difficult for the one being asked to answer. I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of that question more times than I care to remember. My usual response is a nod and, “Yup.” I could even go so far as to smile and laugh with a wave of the hand, “Sure! I’m fine!”

Well, I’m not.

And I’ve never accepted not being OK like I have now. And it makes me feel good to admit and to embrace the fact that I’m not OK. I’m struggling with a lot now. I’m doing my very best to keep myself positive and take each day as it comes, but I’m not in a cheery mood most of the time. I have a million things on my mind, and on any given day at any moment in time I could very well burst into tears for no apparent reason. That’s just how life is right now. And I’ve accepted it.

So, those around me have to, as well.

If I look teary-eyed, don’t ask me if I’m OK.

If I seem frustrated, angry or am generally anxious, don’t ask me if I’m OK.

If I’m unusually quiet and want to left alone, don’t ask me if I’m OK.

I’m not. I will be. But I’m not right now.

And I’m going to take the time I need to not be OK. I’m going to take as long as I need, actually. Everyone who tells me to buck up and move on or grin and push through; they can go to hell (no offense). I want to cry. I want to take on all the sadness and the despair, and I want to learn to get over it. I want to truly feel it all, all the bad, so when I feel the good it’s a real good. Not a covering-up-the-sadness good. I want it to be real. It has to be real.

A huge part of me being OK and feeling that real happiness in the near future is doing what I’m doing right now: Sitting on a balcony in Whistler, BC with a glass of wine, wind rustling through the forest just beyond my reach, cool mountain air whipping my hair and keeping my breaths deep and clean.

This will make me OK. This will keep me grounded. This will make the happiness real. This will make me better. This will get me out the other side.

That’s why I take these moments, for me. I often get odd looks when I explain how I simply booked two extra nights in BC after a business trip to spend, alone, in the province. Without plans, without commitments, without any schedule. Just to be.

Today I drove aimlessly, stopping often to stand outside, arms outstretched to the sun (or rain) just to breathe. Just to let nature wash over me. It’s a liberating feeling. Yet equally stifling.

Spending so much time alone, with yourself, is very revealing.

When you’re not OK, you realize lots of little bits of yourself that aren’t as pleasant as you’d first thought. Those darker regions in the mind you may have ignored or hidden more deeply come to the surface. It’s intense. It’s eye-opening, and it’s actually pretty amazing.

It’s true what they say: You can’t love someone else until you love yourself.

I don’t think I every really loved myself. In my previous life (which is how I like to see it now), I hated more of me than I loved. I know that now. I know it because I’ve been changing, evolving, and improving those bits. I love a lot more of me now than I ever have before. I’m not at 100% but I’m a helluva lot better than I was.

So, am I OK? Nope. Not yet. I know I will be, soon hopefully, but I’m not there yet. Trips like the one I’m on right now help my soul, my heart, and my mind. Detaching, letting go, taking things moment by moment and just going with the flow of things is an amazing way to relax my mind and really get in touch with myself all over again.

Tomorrow it’s back to reality. I’m sad (but so excited to see Owen after 5 days away!), but I’m also happy to bring back a newer, more-OK-than-before me.


•July 3, 2015 • 1 Comment


Getting to the end of something, anything, was the epitome of childhood. Finish your homework, you get to go out. Finish clearing up, you get a treat. Finish that sentence and you’ll either be reprimanded or rewarded. Finish your nap sooner so you can go out and play. Finish your broccoli, it’ll make you strong and healthy. Finish school, you’ll be the smartest — ever.

However, as you get older, endings take on a whole new meaning, and they just don’t seem as… fun.

Putting a final stamp of “done” on something (or for those of you in the communications/journalism know, a -30- to signify there is truly nothing more to come after that point) just isn’t as satisfying in some cases. Family members pass away, pets die, jobs are lost, friendships fade, relationships tank, people move away, and suddenly you desperately don’t want anything to ever end again.

I realize I’m not too good with endings.

In journalism school we learned about something called the inverted pyramid: Put all the important bits and juicy information at the very beginning of the article because readers usually only make it about 2-3 paragraphs in then taper off and never finish anyways. So, the ending didn’t matter. Because no one ever got to it.

I think I took that lesson literally. I never really thought I’d get to any endings. At least, not the endings I’m dealing with now.

Perhaps I’ve been living my life like an inverted pyramid. And as all the juicy interesting bits are starting to taper off, there’s not much left … and I’ve not put together a proper ending, a valid conclusion. And I’ve suddenly realized I have to. And it scares the shit out of me.

I don’t mean that my life has to come to an end soon, as in the conclusion has to be written NOW — just in case anyone was about to pick up the phone or come rushing over here. No, no, I’m saying things need to be concluded and closed in order to move on to the next more appropriately written piece that I think should read much more like a feature column with an appropriate beginning, middle, and end.

I’m not good with endings.

When I was 13 years old, we moved from a small little town to the big city. The small little town had been my home for two years, and my summer and Christmas home for 13. I had been attending a private boarding school in said town. I had friends. I loved it there. And then my parents told me we had to move.

I lost my mind. I thought my world was ending. I cried. Endlessly. It was horrible. I didn’t know how to properly end it. I didn’t know how to accept that one chapter was truly closing and another about to open. I couldn’t look to the next pages. I couldn’t look to the next plot. I could only focus on the loss of the current one.

The same thing happened when my parents threatened to leave the province I’m currently in and move to another when I’d just started CEGEP. I had just started dating my boyfriend (who’d then become my husband and now my ex) and I was desperate to not close that chapter. I couldn’t accept it. I cried. Endlessly. And they said they’d wait till I finished school, and they did. The moment I graduated University, they couldn’t sell the house quickly enough.

When my 19-year-old cat was on her final days, I couldn’t bring myself to put her down. I watched her whither and wear away. I cried. Endlessly. I finally, after weeks of watching her hobble around (in a diaper no less as she could no longer control herself), took that final (ha ha) step to bring her in, and even then SHE made the final decision and the ending into her own paws and died in my arms on the car ride to the vet.

I think I was forever grateful she did that. Saved me having to end it.

And now, as I work with a lawyer to finally, legally, put an end to my marriage after a full year of separation, I can’t handle it. I’ve cried. Endlessly. And I can’t imagine the ending. I don’t want the ending. I know it’s the best thing. He’s moved on. Fully. Completely. And I thought I had, too. Fuck, I thought wrong.

Perhaps it’s the simple fact that something is coming to a close — finishing. That’s what I can’t stand. I know I’ve already accepted us being apart, so why would this upset me all over again? I feel like an idiot. What, I thought we’d fall in love again? Bullshit. I imagined we’d get back together? I’m not that stupid (I hope).

But, do I still care about him? Deeply. Maybe that’s the dumb part. I wish I didn’t care. On so many days, after so many tears and cursing at myself I wish I just didn’t fucking care. After all, I’m the one that broke us, right? Why the hell would I feel something now?

I wish I could breeze through it like it seems he is. I wish I could just walk away, not a flutter of an eye, not an emotional outburst. It would make things so much easier for everyone involved. One day, I’ll ask him how he did it. How he shut me out so quickly. One day I’ll want to know. I’ll need to know.

A very dear and smart friend said something profound as I cried over text messages to her: She told me that while the door was closed on us, I was happy with it being open just a crack. She’s incredibly right. And now it’s about to be shut and locked for good. No more crack. No more opening.

It scares the crap out of me. Makes me feel alone in the ending of it all. Makes me feel panicked as to what will happen next. This is all so final, all so complete. At least, it will be once the paperwork is done. I’m terrified. Utterly and completely terrified.

I should be feeling relief. A sense of freedom even. My parents are ecstatic. They want nothing more than for both of us to be happy (even if that means being happy apart). They want me to start my next chapter. But I can’t for the life of me fathom legitimately ending this current one.

It’s all so final. So …. -30-.

To Escape or to Embrace?

•June 28, 2015 • 1 Comment
Life's all about that journey, right?

Life’s all about that journey, right?

It’s a funny thing… No, perhaps funny is the wrong word here. It’s an interesting thing to hit emotional rock bottom. I’ve been crying for the better part of two days now, and I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mind and thoughts that reality is a bit fuzzy. Truthfully, I feel grateful knowing I can still cry. I’d been “dry” for so long I thought maybe my heart really had frozen over this time. Being emotionally tough became a great protector, a massive barrier that’s kept me safe, kept me sane. Well no longer.

It always amazes me how fickle and undulating life can truly be. One moment things really are fine, good even; then the next you realize bills are way overdue, your rear tire blows out on the highway, you come to the realization that being alone for a great deal longer really is a reality, and your colleague essentially unveils his complete lack of respect for you and your work as a professional in your career. Bam. Life takes a savage, stomach-turning plunge. And in light of all that, do you escape it or do you embrace it?

I have a hard time with this.

Fight or flight. Face it or run from it. Take it all in or push it away.

I’ve had to embrace a great deal over the past few years, most notably my own infidelity and the life I’ve now had to build for myself and Owen because of that life decision. I embraced it — as jagged and painful as it was to hold on a daily basis I held on fucking tight and didn’t let go. I took it all in. I accepted it. I opened up about it, and I took full ownership.

Maybe I’ve used up all my embracing for a while.

The want and need to escape is stronger now than it ever has been before. I don’t just mean get away for the weekend or take a few days off work and lock myself in my condo to watch NetFlix, I mean truly escape from it all. Escape from the life I live and how I live it. Escape to the opposite of what I would normally do, how I would normally be, just to feel like I’m NOT me because, after life takes one of those sever plummets down, being me isn’t really the best thing.

The feeling that being me as I am right now just isn’t working, so I need to escape her, is quite real. I need to try a different version of me. I need to make a change somehow to escape the me that’s caused all this emotional blackness. I hate how weak I’ve become and how weak I feel for being so broken by such mundane things (as mentioned above). Getting emotionally worked up over something that really shouldn’t affect me to that extent.

So, I’m a single mom with no hope or prospects at changing that. Why should that make me sad? But it does. Oh my God but it does. I hate that it cripples me sometimes. I feel so unequivocally alone sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve embraced it for over a year now. I’ve accepted my fate. I’ve tried to come to terms with it all. But when I realized I want to punch happy couples in the face, and that the knowledge that my ex is happily involved brought me to my knees in fits of gut-wrenching sobs, clearly something’s a bit off in the “embracing and accepting singledom department.”

And the ironic (I think that’s the right word here) thing is, I’m the reason for all these escape or embrace situations. I put myself here. I’ve held the wheel. I’ve taken the exits.

I have a quote on my living room wall from Marilyn Monroe:

“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go. Things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right. You believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”

People change so that you can learn to let go.

I need to let go of the me that’s dragged me down into this pit of endless tears and blubbering stupidities. I’m being overly emotional and I’m feeling weak. I need to learn to let go. Let go of her and let go of the things that are causing the tear-filled outbreaks.

Things go wrong so you that you can appreciate them when they’re right.

I read this line often in the script on my wall. I repeat it like a mantra, like a slogan to keep me going. Not that everything has gone so wrong for me over the past little while, but truthfully there’s nothing that’s gone glowingly right, either. Things are just kind of bouncing along in neutral. I want to appreciate the right things, desperately. But at the moment I feel like that’s so far off in the future that I’d best not think about it too much.

Escape or embrace.

Escape or embrace.


I desperately want to continue to embrace … but I need to find the strength in my arms, somehow.

Taking moments

•June 21, 2015 • 1 Comment
Breathing mountain air

Breathing mountain air

I’ve just returned from Germany and Austria. No, it wasn’t a vacation. No, I wasn’t backpacking or exploring unknown little villages and towns. I didn’t meet a bunch of fellow travellers. I didn’t get lost and have to ask for directions desperately in broken German. I didn’t have an oversize backpack with all my worldly possessions stuffed inside.

What I did do was take moments.

I was only there for two days, essentially. I spent one night in the air and two days on the ground, and the next flying home. It was two days of presentations, and driving routes, photo ops and scheduled driver changes. I was there to drive a new car (but I can’t talk about that here). It was a purely business-related trip. But I made sure to take moments, for me.

Our drive route took us through the Karwendal nature reserve, which stretches from Germany into Austria. Winding twisty roads collided with larger-than-life trees and a serene, picturesque lake was in the middle of it all. My co-driver found a fabulous place to stop and take photos of our car near the water with the mountains visible in the background along with the looking-glass water which was (despite the overcast day) a stunning teal blue colour. It was like a postcard, really. We couldn’t have asked for a better backdrop.

As my colleague fussed with his camera and angling the wheels just right, I slipped from the passengers seat and down the rocky embankment to the edge of the water. I may have shouted out a “I may or may not return” just to let him know I was no longer in the car, but I otherwise made the decision to explore at the very last second. I felt I needed to do it.

Lurching precariously from boulder to boulder I made my way to the edge of the water where I stood. In silence. Pure silence. No phone going off. No music. No voices. No talking. No traffic. No background noise of any sort. Just the sound of the water lapping ever so gently at the stony beach, and the wind in the trees, perhaps a bird every now and then.

It was glorious. That moment. That moment in time reset me. Wait, that’s a lie, it wasn’t that particular moment of standing there head to the sky, eyes closed, arms straight and palms open. No, my moment of reset was when I crouched down and plunged both hands in the mountain-fresh, cool-to-the-touch water and felt that moment. That was my reset button. That was my rebirth, so to speak.

I didn’t stay there long. My co-pilot finished his photo shoot and we needed to continue on our way. For a brief moment I was upset I’d not taken my camera or at least my phone to show the rest of the world what a beautiful, perfect moment that was. But then I thought, no, that was MY moment. That was MY time. That was for ME only. And I’m happy no one else got to experience it with me.

That’s not the first moment I’ve taken.

In Iceland I stood, in near complete darkness as the sun was just about to rise at about 11:00am and listened to the wind howl across a snowy tundra while I watched Icelandic Horses trundle along beside the road we were stopped on. It was perfection. I breathed deeply. I felt alive. No phone. No pictures. No camera. Just me. No proof I did any of that, but that’s not why I did it.

In Marseille, France, I went for a short run the day I landed. It’s a great way to get to know the city you’re in (I think) and explore a little while doing something for yourself, too. While on that run, I came across a massive monument along the coastline, a huge angel of sorts. I have no idea what it was for or who it was, but it spoke to me. I stood under it looking out onto the ocean for quite some time. Deep breaths. Eyes closed. Sure, my run was recorded, but not that moment. That moment was mine.

On my run today in Montreal, I took a moment. A family of Canadian Geese (goslings and all) were strolling along the path I’d chosen to run on. Instead of just cruising by them I stopped. I stopped to smile and giggle at the ungainly babies trying to keep up with mum and dad. To watch the weird way their knocked-kneed legs scurried along, then came to a sudden halt when mum or dad stopped. How they grazed over blades of grass, their bills rapidly opening and closing as they took whatever nutrients they needed from the ground and greenery. It made my heart happy. It made my soul smile. And so I took that moment for me.

As I write this particular blog, there’s a thunder storm raging outside my bedroom window. I’ve thrown open the windows to listen. The rain is pelting the side of the building and my windowpane, and the thunder is deep and rumble-y (just the way I like it). There doesn’t seem to be any lightening, but it’s perfection. The thunder is spaced out enough to make my skin prick just a bit each time it cracks, but then the rain brings me right back down to serenity. This moment. Now. This is what counts, this is what matters. I am content in this moment. I am where I want and need to be.

Truthfully, I didn’t always take those moments. I didn’t always appreciate what was around me, what I was looking at, how it could influence and affect me. That hurt me as a person.That made me cold, uncaring, uninvolved. It stopped me from experiencing things that could better me as a person, better me as a mother, as a lover, as a friend. So much of our world flashes by us on a daily basis… it’s a bit scary. It’s even scarier that we let it. All the time.

I won’t preach about taking the time to enjoy the little things. That’s bullshit. Take the time to enjoy the things that make you happy. The things that make you feel content, make you feel whole. Those might not be little things at all. Those might be skydiving or getting a tattoo or completing an Ironman. Or they might very well be smelling flowers on an evening stroll, sticking your hands in a random European mountain lake or listening to the rain on a windowpane.

Whatever your moment is, take it. Breathe deep. It’s yours.


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