The tears come. They always do.
You try to brush them away and smile that perfectly rehearsed smile. It works for a while.
You go about your usual routine. Books-tea-Liam-Walter-wallet-keys-cardigan, all in the bag. You function more productively at work. You read 2 books ahead of your 100 books in 2013 reading goal. You sleep better after months of battling insomnia. You gobble up media like there’s no tomorrow. Occasionally, you even laugh out loud.
And then one obscenely early Sunday morning, it hits you like a speeding train.
And just like that, the tears come again. They always do.
Blasted tear ducts.
You berate yourself for feeling like the emotional wreck that you vowed not to be, never to be. You tell yourself that you are not some silly high school girl. You’re an independent 25-year-old fending off for herself in a big scary city and you’re doing really well. You have a handful of friends who love and think the world of you. Your family isn’t perfect but they mean the world to you and you to them. Something big and beautiful and scary is in the horizon for you and you’re jumping hands up in the air while shouting for everyone to hear, “Look, Ma. No hands!”
But the tears still come. You still start the year by making this silly post.
Things take time, I guess.