Life can get overwhelming and weird and scary, and it’s hard to remember to just breathe.
When you’re stuck in traffic, late leaving home, an irritated three year old in the back seat, groceries needing to be purchased but no money in the bank to buy them, you feel overwhelmed.
You sit in a parking lot, after dropping the three year old at preschool, and bite back the screams and sobs and wails about how it’s not fair; this wasn’t the life you were promised by the grownups when you were sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and the world looked bright and full.
And instead, you just breathe.
You count your blessings.
You remember who you are.
More importantly, you remember what you are.
“The nitrogen in our DNA,
the calcium in our teeth,
the iron in our blood,
the carbon in our apple pies
were made in the interiors of collapsing stars.
We are made of starstuff.”
You are made of something stronger than you know.
And you can survive.
You wipe your tears and lift your chin, and you pull out of that parking spot and get back on the road and drive into the day.
Because it’s what you do.