I put off doing this for years because I appreciate order in my life. I close one door before opening another. Writing here for myself and elsewhere for work makes me uncomfortable, largely because I don’t know how to reconcile these different selves: a front of resolve and logic; a dissolution of emotions and unfinished thoughts. For so long, I have felt my life would begin in the future — earmarked by “next time, I want to…” in an endless shuffle of days. As if right now doesn’t matter.

Isn’t life supposed to be lived in the everyday? I remember, half my life ago, wanting never to forget any bit of it — the highs, the lows, the grey tangle of unknowns. Everything was precious, every moment important. I miss that. I want to know how that feels like again.