- Up before the alarm, I squash the impulse to trawl social media for fifteen minutes before rolling out of bed. I need to move.
- The desire to spend the still, dark morning in journalling devotion wars with the desire to lift and run. There’s only room for one each day—though there was a time I did both.
- My jaw hasn’t felt wired shut in days, which means the decaf is working. Yay!dammit.
- It’s too much—too many bodies, too many voices—but even as I nervously fan myself, I’m aware that the anxiety is exponentially (thankfully) less than last year.
- Go the f*ck to sleep.
- A lot of the time being a 1 feels like you’re the wet blanket of the ennegram.
- Deleting drafts that seemed promising but lack substance.
- Creating tinyart each day—savoring the thrill of the idea landing just so, of stretching into unfamiliar territory—reinforces old certainty. I can do this. There are stories in here yet.
- The hardest part of knowing ahead of time is being patient while reality catches up.
- I should’ve given her a bath tonight. Tomorrow, it’s the Return of Big Boots, and Big Boots only bathes the hard way.
Of making it to the gym for once, being a wet blanket, and tinyart.