I gathered with my girlfriends recently to have our annual Christmas gathering. We eat a lot of food, exchange gifts (some tangible and some intangible), and generally catch up on life. We try to get together throughout the year but, when you think about it, this is our time of reflection of many days gone by.
When it was my time to share ‘what was new’, I said ‘not much, really’. This was met with plenty of objections. Consensus was that my life might be the most adventurous of the lot: I started a new relationship, bought a house, travelled to Africa, and won a national award. Not a bad letter to insert into the Christmas cards I didn’t send. Of course, here’s hoping that 2012 will be slightly more interesting [tongue inserted in cheek].
All 30-something-year-olds need to have a crisis or two. Mine came a week ago: unable to fall asleep, searching the darkness, then crying out into the empty echos in my house — I’m not perfect. That unwritten Christmas letter could certainly make it seem like I have it all together, that I’m successful and well-balanced and friendly and talented and, well, merely amazing. Except that I’m not. Sometimes I’m desperately insecure and unsure and floundering behind a facade.
I’m not sure if this has ever happened to you but sometimes, on occasion, I read a book that completely resonates to my core. Meandering through a local bookstore, I found ‘Grace for the good girl’ [E Freeman] tucked in behind some others on the shelf. After a cursory glance, I knew I needed to read the book. Although I’m 90% sure that there won’t be any miraculous answers or resolution of angst, it is sometimes simply nice to know that someone else has walked the same road.
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