If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
I’ve always been an “early to bed, early to rise” kind of gal. My childhood best friend and I were reminiscing the other day and she laughed while recalling how even at noisy slumber parties I would take myself to bed whenever I got tired enough. What can I say? I need my beauty rest, and lots of it.
But what if sleep wasn’t a necessity? What would I do if I had the full 24 hours in my day?
Short answer: EVERYTHING.
I would go to clubs and parties in the wee hours of the night, just to see what all the fuss is about. (I’ve long been skeptical that those places are actually fun after midnight.)
I would clean my house within an inch of its life and finally, finally be caught up on laundry.
I would stay up late talking with my husband, growing closer together as we watched the sun rise.
I would finish all the books I’ve been trying to read and get my library hold list down to 0.
I would have more sessions with my therapist.
I would exercise more. (The pandemic taught me that I will work out if I have literally nothing else to do.)
I would volunteer in my community.
I would spend more time with my family and friends. (Traveling wouldn’t be as big of a hassle if I could do it while the rest of the world is sleeping.)
I would blog more and finally start that memoir I’ve been itching to write.
And, if I’m really being honest with myself, I would probably long for the “beauty rest” I no longer needed.
I would reminisce about the 8-10 hours I used to sleep every day.
I would recall how good it felt to retire at the end of a long day, to quietly slip into that still pool of slumber.
I would achingly remember what it felt like to dream.
Do you ever stop to think about the specific combination of events that brought you to this moment? The decisions you or others made that led you here? I do (too often if I’m honest with myself).
We are the products of the choices we make, and I like to think I’ve made some pretty decent choices throughout my life. But it can also be surmised that we are the product of others choices too (at least to a certain extent). Would I still be where I am–who I am–if the people around me made different choices?
In college, I grew very close to someone on my speech and debate team. From the moment we met we just clicked, and we became best friends. We supported each other through breakups, had tons of fun at speech tournaments and parties, even lived together for a time. After I graduated and we moved to different states, I thought our friendship was solid.
Until it wasn’t.
I was going through an abusive relationship and I admit I wasn’t the best friend I could be. When I reached out to my friend, it was usually after a bad bout with my ex when I needed support and a listening ear. She grew frustrated that I wouldn’t leave him and said as much in a particularly heated phone exchange. That was the last time I spoke to her.
In hindsight I understand her perspective; she was tired of seeing her friend crying and hurt. She made a decision to no longer contact me. I can’t make assumptions about what spurred her decision to cease communication, but I know I was too embarrassed about my situation to reach out to her after that. Eventually I did exit the abusive relationship, but my friendship never recovered.
Maybe it was the chemistry of that moment: a combination of too much distance, not enough communication, and the heat of emotion. (A sprinkle more awareness and a dash less pride on my end probably would have been helpful in the situation too, I see that now.) But who truly knows what combination of elements–on my former friend’s end and mine–would have made the friendship successful?
Maybe it was never meant to be more than it was.
But what I know now is what I know now. Each of us makes decisions we feel are best based on the information we have at the moment, and relationships are not science. But like any good chemist, I’ll apply what I learned to future experiments relationships and hopefully achieve better outcomes.
What part of your routine do you always try to skip if you can?
Every morning starts off (nearly) identically:
Wake up.
Enjoy a warm beverage (usually coffee, but homemade chai recently entered the rotation).
Check email, catch up on socials, or read.
A quick yoga flow with my lovely husband.
Next on the docket is my daily exercise. And this, my friends, is the part I skip if I can.
I’ve never been an athletic kind of gal. I’m much more the artistic type, due in large part to my diminished hand-eye coordination and general antipathy toward sweat and labored breathing. In high school when we had to run the mile, I leisurely walked the curves and ran lightly jogged the straight parts of the track. I ate what I wanted and assumed my youthful metabolism would take care of everything.
I was wrong.
Physical activity is so important for our bodies (of course) but also our mental health. In early 2020, I started doing cardio dance routines on YouTube out of boredom mostly, but also as a means to cultivate joy during a truly terrifying time. (I’m telling y’all, dancing to Backstreet Boys and the Spice Girls will put a smile on your face even in the midst of a global pandemic.) The habit stuck, and now I spend at least 30 minutes every day doing some sort of physical activity.
Well, almost every day.
Turns out I’m still not an athletic kind of gal and I don’t think I ever will be. I will always prefer sitting on the couch over going for a run. If I must exercise, I’d like it be in some form where it doesn’t feel like a workout—it just feels like fun. And on the weekends, I have been known to pretend like the running portion of my latest 4-week fitness plan just doesn’t exist.
But I am pushing myself to incorporate more physical activity while also eating more whole (vegan) foods in smaller portions. While I don’t look the same as I did in high school, I feel awesome! (I was too skinny back then anyway—that was the “heroin chic” era of the ‘90s-2000s when too many of us were focused on size instead of health.)
As I type this, I am sitting in my unfinished basement home gym dreading the 30 minutes of exercise I’m about to do. I really reallyreally don’t want to put in this work. But work I must.
Because my body, mind, and spirit are worth it the effort.
Can I skip this part When I fall to pieces Back here at start Need a time machine then
If I could escape all this hurt and this pain, oh, I would What it’s gonna take to get me through this break is no good
Kelly Clarkson, ‘skip this part’
I know I’m guilty of pushing my feelings aside for convenience, self-preservation, and to protect other people’s feelings. Those so-called “bad” feelings—anger, disappointment, frustration—I’m the queen of holding that ish in. For some many reasons, I’ve convinced myself that these very natural feelings should be hidden away. Other people can feel that way, but not me. Can’t let people know when they hurt you—that’s weakness! Never show people you’re upset—don’t wanna be a buzzkill!
But even the “good” feelings are carefully sequestered; joy, passion, and enthusiasm are carefully meted. Phrases like “a crime of passion” always freaked me out because the emotion takes over. I never want to lose control of myself, even for “good” reason. Not only that, if I allow myself to fully experience those emotions then I’ll open myself up to disappointment. Don’t get too happy because you’ll feel that tumble and crash into sadness even more. Don’t get too excited because then it will hurt twice as much when someone (especially someone you love) lets you down.
But today and from now on, I allow myself to feel.
I am so sick of putting myself into a box because it’s easier than living outside of it. I am wasting one of the most beautiful human experiences—feeling and emotion—because I’m worried about how other people will react. I will always consider and respect the feelings of others, and I try to never shame anyone for feeling a way. So I’m going to apply that sentiment to myself from now on.
Do you allow yourself to feel? How do you express your feelings in a healthy, non-destructive way that still respects the feelings of others?
I woke up well rested. My workout didn’t (totally) wipe me out.
The class pilot I’ve been stressing out over for a month went swimmingly. I got ahead on not one, but two projects. A colleague gushed over a video series I produced for her; she called the work I thought was basic “amazing.”
The temperature stayed above freezing for most of the day. I tried a new recipe that turned out delicious. The kitchen is clean, supper made enough leftovers for another dinner, and and I’m contentedly watching reruns of The Office with my love.
Today wasn’t spectacular, or life changing. It wasn’t even particularly interesting. But it was such a good day.
In the US, November is seen as a month for gratitude and giving thanks. But too many of us neglect to appreciate the many blessings around us. This is my intention to express gratitude every month, every week, every day of the year.
May we see each day for the beautiful gift it is. May we value each other for the differences that make us unique. May we do our best to make each day a good day for all of us.
Today my affirmation was, “I will make good choices today.” Not easy choices. Or convenient ones. Good choices.
And it was HARD.
Lately I’ve come to admit that the way I moved through life in the past doesn’t serve me as much anymore. The perfectionism, the self doubt, the use of fear and criticism as motivators—they helped me survive. They were my rock and slingshot, meager tools for slaying giants but effective nonetheless. For a very long time, they felt like the only tools I had.
But now, I choose differently.
I choose to let go of what I can’t change. I choose to believe in myself. I choose to stop punishing for being human. I choose to treat my body with kindness. I choose to speak to myself gently and with encouragement.
I owe it to the version of myself who thought there was no other way.
What would you do if you lost all your possessions?
Before I share my perspective, I want to acknowledge how privileged I am to have never experienced losing all my possessions. I’ve never known life without clothes on my back, food in my belly, and a place to lay my head and store my belongings. My heart aches for anyone who has ever lost all they owned.
But when I stop to think about what it would be like to lose all my possessions, my mind whispers
free
I admit I am a bit of a pack rat and I hold onto many things that should have been donated or trashed long ago. Just yesterday, I went through my closets and came out with two large bags full of gently used clothes for donation, much of which hadn’t been worn in at least a year.
It sounds so liberating, getting rid of it all. No “I might need this” or “someday I’ll use that”—just starting over with nothing to hold me back. A clean slate.
But all means ALL, doesn’t it?
The wooden figure bought in Bali the day I knew my husband was “the one.”
The birthday cards from my mother through the years, with words of love in her perfect cursive.
The UK memorabilia my daddy collected.
The American flag that laid across his casket.
I would put on a brave face, for sure. But underneath the stoicism and the “things are just things” attitude I would be
devastated
Eventually, I would move on. Time would dull the pain of losing. I’d gather more things.
And hopefully, freedom would come with the understanding that possessions spark memories, and memories can last forever even without the physical token.
So I’ll value my possessions and treat them with care while I have them…
…because I know there may come a day when memories are all that’s left.
Oh. My. Goodness. …Am I actually getting my shit together?!?
Short answer: Yes. (FINALLY.)
I know it’s been awhile but I’ve decided to give this blogging thing a try. Again. For the umpteenth time. After OVER A YEAR of crickets on the blog.
It isn’t like I haven’t thought about it, though. I’ve often tried to drum up the inspiration, the energy to write. But it didn’t feel right until now.
You know, one of the reasons I’ve avoided writing here is because this blog chronicles some of the lowest points of my life. Reading the entries reminds me of how broken, how lost and afraid I was. The wounds may have healed a bit over time, but the memories of their infliction never faded.
My goal now is to rediscover my love of writing, explore all the things I’m learning about myself on my journey through therapy, and HEAL. (Not necessarily in that order.)
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll help some of y’all who are healing too.
Life is full of twists and turns, a road ever winding with deep curves ahead. Some times we find ourselves at dead ends. Other times the path is leisurely, not a pothole or speed bump in sight. The only thing we know for sure is that there is no GPS and we can’t refill our tanks when our fuel finally runs out.
So let’s take this journey.
Let’s hop into the driver’s seat of our lives.
Spark the ignition of hope.
Check the rear view mirror to remember where we came from.
Not literally, of course. But I grew up an only child in a town of about 3000 people. My closest neighbors (both in age and proximity) were fully grown adults with fully grown children. No public transit, no sidewalks, no bike paths—if my mom wasn’t available to drive me into town, it was my responsibility to keep myself occupied.
I generally got along with the kids at school, but I was never the kid people clamored to hang out with. I was one of the few Black kids, and some parents wouldn’t let their kids play with me even if they wanted to. It wasn’t until 4th grade that I found someone I really connected with.
But I wasn’t lonely. Far from it! What I lacked in human companionship I made up for in books.
I read constantly—while I ate, waiting for the school bus, on the school bus, basically anytime I got a free moment. My mom played in a slow-pitch softball league, and I’d always ask how long the games would be. (I needed to know how many books to bring.) Reading, something I did entirely by myself, introduced me to people I’d never meet in my small southern town. But beyond that, those countless hours with my nose in a book taught me something truly valuable.
Being alone and being lonely aren’t the same at all.
Take yourself out on a date. Go on a solo trip. Be alone with yourself and your thoughts. Learn who you are without anyone else. Love who you are without anyone else. As long as you love who you are, what others think or say truly doesn’t matter.
In solitude the mind gains strength, and learns to lean upon itself.
deepcurvesahead 