When I moved here I saw exactly in my head what my life looks like.

I saw a job I loved with kind people that was fulfilling and challenging and full. I saw a house with wood floors and flowers and light and a kitchen full of nourishing food, dancing, and good red wine.




I saw yoga, dancing, reading, and pals.

But I didn’t see the part that was lonely and hard. I didn’t see the nights walking past laughing groups of friends and feeling for the first time the weight of being without people you feel safe to share your story with.

When I fell in love, madly in love, in love in a way I didn’t know possible, it was so much more beautiful than I could have imagined.


It made me feel safe, adored, pushed to grow, loved for my wildness. I knew long distance was abstractly difficult, but I didn’t understand the physical ache of being far from your love or the coldness of a bed.

I am an idealist to the core, and I hope to never lose the part of me that sees my life in dreamy potentials, but it turns out, the hard, the struggle: those are the parts that make you who you are in the end.

I live in muck. I sulk on my way home after too many long days, I burst into tears when I try to assemble a dresser solo, I lose heart when I smile at a stranger and they scowl.

But in that muck, I feel more than ever the push to become a better woman. The kind of woman who deserves and can embrace fully the huge gifts I’ve been given.


For as long as I can remember, I wanted to wait to become who I was. I wanted to wake up and be still, quiet, calm, composed. I would be the best daughter, partner, nurse, and I would be pleased with myself then.

It’s the same scarcity that makes us put a job, a number on a scale, a marital status before we let ourselves feel worthy.

But I’ve decided to stop putting qualifiers on my wholeness.


There will always be room to become a better human, but that doesn’t detract from the one I am now.








When you look close, there are parts that are barely holding it together, there is struggle, tears, harsh words, too little effort in important things, too much effort in absolute wastes, and there are certainly dishes in the sink, but that only makes it a sincere life, an honest story.


When we decide to love ourselves in light of our scattered, oblong dots that unite to create our story: we win. We don’t have to pretend we have it all together, or that we ever will. We can celebrate all of it. We can love it all.




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