“Woman must not be awed by that which has been built up around her; she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression.”
—Margaret Sanger
Tomorrow I turn 39.
I don’t feel much about it, which is strange. Society builds up turning 30 and turning 40 as huge milestones, so I expected to feel something—some shift or revelation. But I mostly feel uneventful.
And maybe, in a passive way, it is getting to me. I’ve been balls-deep in all my favorite vices, and in increasingly complicated, strange, and uncomfortable ways.
Sometimes I can step back and see that I’m not building, creating, or making the life I want. I’m phoning it in, then diverting myself by consuming more and more. And slowly, it’s consuming me, too.
I want to snap out of it. I want to get back into my body, return to the happy, healthy habits in which I thrive, and become more like the person I’d like to be. But I’m apathetic. I’m not really motivated to try. Like, at all.
I was flipping through old journal entries, and not that long ago I wrote: “Don’t wait for the feeling before taking action. Take action, and the feeling will come after.”
I know this. I know I get stuck waiting for the feeling—for motivation, inspiration, or desire—before I take action. But I also know that I have to act first. The feeling comes later.
Still, maybe it isn’t so rotten, awful, or bad to take a big ol’ break from trying. A couple of bare-minimum months won’t kill anyone. Time is relative. A month can feel like a year, and this year has felt like some strange, gooey purgatory.
I still have a year to become the forty-something I’ve always envisioned.
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