On another year older …

Apologies; the post is later than scheduled this week because Wednesday was my 36th birthday. I had a wonderful time celebrating with friends, and it helped keep the existential dread that accompanies turning another year older at bay.

At least for a little while.

But inevitably, the fear that I’m falling behind creeps up on me. Being completely vulnerable and almost completely honest, by this time in my life, I thought I’d have more. I thought I’d own a home, be married, and have kids. I thought my writing career would be more substantial. I thought I’d be financially comfortable. I thought, and I thought, and I thought … but what have I got?

I’ve got an adorable little apartment where I’ve always wanted to live. I’m single and without kids, but that dream’s not entirely dead. And I submitted to a handful of agents, entered a writing contest, and submitted to an open house for Carnegie Mellon University Press.

I’m another year older and instead of believing I’m another year farther from the life I imagined, I’m working on embracing the belief I’m another year closer to a life beyond my wildest dreams.

Wish me luck <3

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