For the last two decades, I have stressed the f*ck out of myself during the first few days of January. I've always had this visual of "breaking into" the new year with power: A naked warrior wrapped in light, angelic choirs singing in the background. An upgraded version of me, stepping into the "new year, new me" resolution list. This (insane) visual comes wrapped in vogue-magazine gloss, and looks like this: Me, waking up at 5 am to go to spinning class. Me, actually wearing "colorful, grown up clothes" to work. Me, saving every receipt and staying on budget. Having a budget. Me, not giving a crap about what people say (or do). Me, making sobriety and recovery easy and lovely. Me, launching
And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.