This last week was tough. It was one of those, “I don’t want to blog because whatever comes out will be raw and ugly and quite possibly pathetic.”
I spent the week staring in horror at my baggage. Oh, I knew I had baggage and lots of it, but I had felt like I have grown leaps and bounds in the last year and a half. Life was great. I was happy. Healthy. The struggles were behind me. And then I started reading a book my roommate recommended. It was like I crawled up what I thought was Mt. Everest and realizing once I struggled to the top that I had actually only climbed a hill and Mt. Everest was looming in an insurmountable obstacle in front of me.
I was overwhelmed. I was scared. Fears that I thought had risen victorious over had actually been rolled up tight in the corner of my suitcase and forgotten about, only to resurface and remind me that they were still there and until I really truly dealt with them, I would never go on to becoming the healthy, awesome woman that I could be. But it would hurt. I knew it would be hard work, and it would hurt.
So I ran. I ran to the normal things that I used to run to hide. I found them as usual – distracting for a bit but left me still empty. And I felt lost. I spent Sunday reflecting and walking. And walking. And walking. Mile after mile of sand and crashing water soothed my soul. By Sunday night, I felt a little more stable to face the work ahead of me. I’ve come a long way, but I still have a long, long way to go. Realizing I spent most of the last year running, with some growth, I re-purposed myself to spending this year stopping to unpack, which, ironically will take me exactly where I need to go.