Seven weeks ago, I began a new chapter in my life. The struggle, so real for so very long, was finally over.
I felt like I made it. Like I could coast to an eventual finish line just by showing up. Like all my dreams were part of some larger cosmic plan. To put it simply, I became lax.
I started to slip in aspects of my life that used to be concrete. It was all gradual, but I’d be a liar if I said I was unaware of it. On some subconscious level, I’m sure I was a passive observer to it. Things I used to care about suddenly took a back seat, and suddenly I found myself compromising on my foundations.
The realization came when I found myself sleeping in. This never used to happen, even on the weekends. I hate sleep. I hate the fact that I need it even more. My weekends were times I could wake at eight and enjoy breakfast with several cups of coffee.
I was in a rut.
Even worse, I was in a rut during a period of time when I can’t afford to be in a rut. I was in a different struggle now and can’t afford to NOT understand what I was doing and why I was here. That was the worst. I forgot why I was here doing what I was doing.
The struggle is so real. I used to joke about that phrase with friends and my sisters, my ode to a tired meme celebrating life in the first world.
The moment we feel like we’ve made it, is the very moment we lose ground and slip.
The struggle is never really over. And the costs and rewards are so very real.
Balderdash! 