Sometimes I wish I could sit down with everyone I know, one or two at a time, and just spill it. Pour my heart out. We would meet for coffee and it would be easy for me to just sit there and tell you all of the things I need to.
I’m not very good at that, letting it all come out. It is hard, I am embarrassed. I am excited. I am happy. I am grateful. I struggle with pride. With not wanting to brag. With being wholly in the feelings I’m having. And then sometimes feeling guilty for those feelings.
But if we were sitting down for coffee this morning I’d do my best to look you in the eye and tell you about me. I’d tell you it’s been a hard year, and that I’ve struggled.
I’d tell you I’m not sleeping well lately. I’d tell you I’m feeling incredibly grateful for my family and friends for standing by me. I’d tell you I feel really loved.
If we were sitting down for coffee this morning I’d tell you about all the compromises I’ve had to make this year, many of which I’d never imagined. I’d tell you that a lot of my worst-case-scenario thoughts have become reality, and how I’m beyond many of them.
If we sat down this morning I’d tell you how much I’ve learned and the new ways I’ve learned to define myself, independent of my circumstances. I would tell you how grateful I am just to be here, even if in some moments I feel like I can’t breathe.
If we were meeting for coffee this morning I’d tell you how frustrated I am, how it’s hard to feel like all the rest of life is really incredible except one, pretty fundamental piece. I’d tell you how it’s hard to see other’s lives sometimes, doing even the simple little things I have had to put aside. I’d tell you how hard I’ve had to work to get over the thought that age is an indicator of any given experience or life stage.
If we were sitting down for coffee this morning I’d tell you all the ways I’ve tried to make changes, to try new approaches, to think of what I might be missing. I’d tell you that I’m tired. Caffeinated, but tired. That I was exhausted but up at 4:00AM anyway.
And I’d tell you that I know I’m okay. I know I’m still as smart and capable as ever and that I wouldn’t take any of it back. I’d tell you that I’d learned that exhaustion is a perfect home for hope, it turns out. And I’d say sorry I can’t find a way to tell you more. But thank you for being here. And thank you for believing in me anyway.