I am a mostly rational, quite competent, incredibly self-developed independent woman in her thirties.
What the hell was I doing reliving all my childhood grievances against my parents and my siblings?
The stories we tell about ourselves are what define us.
The ways in which we choose to see our challenges chart the course for who we become in this world.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but something I’ve been contending with lately is how powerful my fantasy life is, and how much more comfortable I am dreaming of a better time than being here, now, in the present, doing the drudging work of creating that better time.
When you premise your existence on the idea that everything is going to end in a fiery ball of doom, it makes it incredibly difficult to create something good. To believe that anything you do matters. To invest your time in relationships, in your creativity, in growing or building anything.
We started the Party off by turning to a stranger and asking them: “Can I kiss you?”
To which they had to say: “No.”
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