Dear Thug Unicorn & Glennon Doyle,
I’m doing it. I’m doing hard things. You’d be so proud of me.
I’m so proud of me.
But damn, it’s fucking hard.
Even when you sparkle.
The easy thing tonight would have been eating dinner with my family – and then staying.
Like I did last night, when I was so tired. And all I wanted to do after a long day was sit on my family couch, under my family blanket, in my family home. So I did.
But then today was long, too. And dinner was ready and waiting when I walked in. Again.
So I sat down and ate. And then I kissed my kids. (Okay, only figuratively with the teenager, who finished dinner and went back up to her room.)
And I did the hard thing.
It doesn’t look hard. At least on the surface.
A space I can decorate the way I like and not compromise with anyone.
Nine pillows on the bed.
And some of them are furry.
A one serving bottle of prosecco to commemorate it. Acknowledge it.
But it wasn’t a celebration.
No matter how it looked.
It was simply a punctuation mark.
A sad, freeing, conscious, loving, scary, thrilling punctuation mark.
A plot twist, as you would say, Glennon.
But is it still a plot twist if you knew it was coming? Knew it was coming for longer than you care to admit?
It doesn’t matter now.
I’m doing the hard things.
And I’m still sparkling.
Sure, I might have spent the evening working…and watching questionable television. Instead of meditating or crying or reaching out to someone.
I know you would tell me to be gentle with myself, Glennon and Tanya. And this is my version of gentle tonight.
Work, prosecco, and The Bachelor.
That’s self-care tonight. And who knows how many nights after this.
But it’s okay.
I’m scared and ready and sparkling and doing hard things.