Last day

I'm in a uncharacteristically reflective end-of-the-year mood. I look back and see a year riddled with unfulfilled potential, but plenty of positive changes.

In the last year I've relaxed into my place as a mother and the powerful ability to enjoy it, without looking for Nora's every breath to be her last. I became a vegetarian and I've started exercising. They're empowering changes that I really wasn't looking to accomplish, but I'm savvy enough to see them for what they are; I've learned to put myself first.

On a more somber note, I've almost entirely quit writing. Sure, my drawers and hide-y holes are filled with scribbled on pieces of paper that could be something, but they're incomplete. I've abandoned them there and I feel guilty.

Creativity is a huge part of my spirit and I shush it, constantly, because it's inconvenient and poorly timed. My hope for this new year is another sneaky revolution and I'll find myself thrilled with all I've written this time next year.