“it gets better.”


Went to check gmail, and I found that one of my favorite bloggers had sent out a new email. It was “2013 lessons.” She talked about all the things that she had learned from this past year – and all the years leading up to it, by the sounds of it.

The very first lesson? “It gets better.”

For those who work hard, and who are exploring and taking chances, it adds up. Keep going… If you’re in a slough–and I’ve had years of undulations, so I understand the melancholy that can come from not understanding just-quite-what-to-do-next–stick it out another season, and keep experimenting.

“By and large, the latter half of the decade was far more psychologically and personally satisfying–coming into stride with many of my quirks and idiosyncracies, delighting in saying no in order to stay at home and work on a project purely because my soul wanted to, and deciding to skip, sing, hold hands and lie on the floor when I felt like it–all of this slowly built a foundation of happiness and glee I wasn’t accustomed to after coming off of years of teenage (and early twenty-something) angst. It’s worth saying, however, that much of the groundwork for many of my leaps and bounds between age 25-29 came through several years of dedicated, isolated, and non-public personal and professional efforts in my younger years.”

That really hit home, when I read that.
All I could think was… fuck.
You know? Like… just… fuck.

The sort of “fuck” that comes with a long sigh.
That “fuck.”

And there are a lot of different fucks, so it makes sense to clarify. There is the quick, surprised, scared “fck!” from rushing around a corner and startled by nearly running into someone. Then there is the groan “fuuuuck,” like when your wife calls to say that the dog got out of the yard for the third time this week (but not before he first methodically shredded every bag of garbage on the side of the house.) There’s the aroused “fuck,” uttered (often repeatedly) in heated bedroom sessions. There’s the infuriated, exclamatory “fuck!,” as when one drops an entire gallon of open paint off of the banister, on which it was braced, onto the brand new Persian carpet below.

There are, in short, all kinds of ways to say “fuck.”

But my fuck this morning was simply the soft exhale fuck. The sighing fuck. The “fuck” of relief. The “fuck” of collapsing onto the couch after three work shifts in a row. The “fuck” of your test results finally coming back negative after eight months of intense treatment.

The “fuck” of reading someone you admire say, “hey, it’s okay.”

“Keep going – it gets better.”

And I should hope that it does, Sarah. I should hope that it does… because I know you went through this whole exploration, too. And if you say it will be okay, I am going to do what I can to believe you.

I want to believe you.

But do not mislead me, dear… I am leaning on the belief that this will work out.

(And, it should be said, if I would have advised my grandmother against reading this blog beforehand, this entry right here has officially made the whole thing “gramma inappropriate.”)


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