Going to physical therapy for various ailments is something I’ve done most of my life because I’ve always been involved in some sport or another. I remember my first stint as a high school gymnast, when I was dealing with sore ankles and their tendency to twist. I can still picture the therapist with a… Continue reading Latent Lollygagger: Causes and Symptoms
Stagnation, it seems, isn’t good for much of anything. So, when it comes to giving ourselves a break, are we stagnating or keeping the blood moving?
What to do when that list of "shoulds" interferes with a sick day.
On realizing that I’m tired of looking backward, that it’s time to turn forward and cross the bridge in front of me.
It’s a simple equation, though: discomfort = growth. As is unknown = scary.
For as much as I like to tell myself that I don’t care what other people think, that I have a fierce independent streak and stubbornness that I can take care of myself and need to be able to do what I want to do, I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
But this isn’t a story about that trip. Or even my first months in San Francisco which turned into now six-and-a-half years here. This is a story about what that six-and-a-half-year-old me would have given to know what present me is up to.
I would like to share a story, one that isn't over but one that has a satisfying little click of purpose. Of forward movement.
And as with all good stories, this one has a beginning even earlier than what it seems.
They said writing would be hard. They forgot to mention editing.
Learning to listen to our bodies.