I didn’t know how badly I needed to come home until I arrived at my mother’s apartment with movers, Saturday afternoon.
I walked in the door and immediately curled up on her couch. I didn’t care where the movers put the boxes. I didn’t have the energy to give anymore instructions. I didn’t have the energy for anything. I sank into the couch cushions, closed my eyes and let the warmth and Glade plug-in fragrance of my mother’s home welcome me. I knew I’d had a rough year, but I didn’t realize how rough until I exhaled my first real breath for the first time in forever in my mother’s home. As ashamed as I was about returning to my mother’s at 31 years old, everything in my mind, body, and soul told me I needed a damn break.
It’s come to my attention over the last few months that a handful of readers make a practice of reading between the lines of my posts. I get it. We live in the information age where surface knowledge of a thing is never enough. It’s not enough to read my most intimate thoughts (which I obviously don’t mind, otherwise I wouldn’t share them), you also have to know the who/what/when/where/why. Continue reading
Remember when I turned 30 last year? When I waxed poetic about the lessons I’d learned in my 20s and how I looked forward to life with more confidence, (and thanks to my new gig) more money, and more adventure?
Do you want to know what 30 had to say that?
“That’s not how it works. That’s not how any of this works.“
Do you know what 30 was?