With an August birthday and an inability to untangle myself from academic calendars, the end of July whispers the end of summer for me, even with high temperatures and weeks separating August 1 and the true end of summer. It still feels like summer, but I see the sunlight waning long before I need to start worrying about whether or not the kids emptied their backpacks from the end of the year.
The past several years, my impending birthday brought reflection and melancholy more than excitement. This year feels the same, no matter how diligently I meditate or piece together words in my journal. (Even on busy days, I try to list a few bits of gratitude. I heard it rewires your brain. I’m not so sure my re-wiring is complete yet.) Another year should be celebratory, especially this year, with my mom’s diagnosis almost coming up on an entire year. Discomfort crowds out the celebration, leaving me returning again and again to thoughts of what I’d like to change instead of what I should be proud of.
I don’t like feeling like this. At least I don’t think I like feeling like this, but maybe I do on some level. Maybe I fall into some sort of comfort space carved out by the inability to motivate myself to move forward, a valley worn down by beginning to climb and sliding down again.
How many Augusts can I use as a re-set? How many times can I take account of the habits I should be changing (writing 30 minutes a day shouldn’t be impossible or walking ten thousand steps or any of the other small changes I’d love to make this month)? I’m not sure, honestly.
Today is the beginning of August. Today is the beginning of my birthday month, the month I go back to work, the month the kids start school again, the month that promises a clean slate — if only I can be brave enough to write on it.
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