My last year of college was…well. It wasn’t great.

There were so many joys. Nights of planning for the future stretched out onto spiral-bound pages and, for the first time, time started to tick away and I was ready for it to leave. There were friends and books and a few classes where I really learned.

But you know how years have sort of overriding emotions? You think of one and there’s a feeling you get. It’s the essence of the year, I guess. And the essence of my fifth year of college was not healthy or good. 

The year after, my first year of the “real world,” was definitely not something I’d call unhealthy. I’d call it almost entirely healthy, actually, in a stretching-growing-painful-progress way. But still, those days were still not something I’d categorize under “good.” I woke up most every work day anxious — not unwilling, but cringing and afraid — about the task at hand.

And now, things are — of course — far from perfect. In small ways (sometimes I wake up late) and large ones (sometimes a tumor shadows into existence and takes up residence in my brain). 

But things are good. 

I’m so happy with the basic building blocks of my life, despite their imperfection, despite my imperfection, that there’s an undercurrent of calm flowing underneath everything, even the not-so-perfect stuff. More than enough calm to spend my time noticing and seeing and enjoying — being satisfied in the simplest way.

It will not be forever. But I’m so grateful that it’s here right now.

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