I suppose using a boxing metaphor as a title for my blog is a bit of a stretch. Given the limits of my upper body strength I am lucky to lift a cast iron skillet on a good day. I guess it seemed appropriate given this return to the drawing board, after getting what - at the very least - feels like kicked out of the ring.Where do I start?
I'm back to the drawing board when it comes to my life - on almost every level.
I can't imagine my reaction had you told me seven years ago where I would be today. I sit here, visually unrecognizable from my high school self. In love. Living with someone who's first language is not my own. A receptionist. Absent a University degree.
My closest high school friends have split around the globe - our very un-Sex-&-the-City Four now an international, sporadically joined three musketeers.
In therapy.
A survivor. Ish.
There's a very odd way that one tends to get swept up in the current of one's life. Things happen around you and before you know it you're sent in directions that hardly feel like your choices. All of a sudden you're so far down the river that you can hardly remember when you started making the wrong turns.
I've never been very good at admitting my mistakes.
I love being right.
I rejoice when it is told to me - each syllable a victory lap to be savored.
But as I stare 25 in the face - as I realise that I am half way to that age where it seems I should really have my sh-t together - I've reached a point of being unable to pretend any longer.
I was wrong.
A lot.
And maybe that was my journey. I guess that's something I'll have to swallow in all its bitter glory.
But I made wrong turns. Plural. And I'm in a place where I hardly recognise myself anymore.
So this is me.
Starting over.
And this is where I'll write about it.
