It’s about being resilient.
Trying to thrive instead of trying to survive.
Although most days it feels like survival.
I try to think of mothers who have kids with cancer. Or people in Syria. Or really anyone who should have a reason to need to work on surviving a day.
That rarely makes me feel better.
Instead, I take stock in how I have succeeded that day:
I woke up and dressed myself. Alone.
I dressed two little ones and left our home on time. Sorta.
I did what I do to earn money to live and thrive with the hours of my time.
I fought through tasks and boredom and phone calls, trying to carve some meaning out of it.
I pick up the little ones and sometimes I exercise at the gym, working on something for myself, like they say you should.
I might talk to my parents. Every conversation I have can be counted on two hands.
I cook dinner and I clean and I help with homework and I play and I cuddle and I give kisses.
I watch my shows and read my books and make lists for the next day.
I try to resist smoking or drinking, which is a task unto itself. Every negative word builds me towards that escape.
I shower and lay in bed, holding dreams that I will forget the feeling of a warm body next to me.
I tell myself I’m working towards goals and that’s all I can do… tell myself that I’m being resilient to the despair that can fill you if you don’t think you’re being resilient.
Fighting for significance.
Fighting against loneliness.
Fighting toward the independence that makes me feel this seclusion is how I was meant to live.