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Yesterday was a day to move mountains. I learned mad amounts of data at my job, working harder and longer than I have in a long, long time. And when dinner time came, my father said to me, “Don’t take this wrong, but are the new medicines working? You have more… vinegar in you.” (In its most basic form, this paraphrased dialogue means that my dad was glad to see the return of my spirit, my zest).

The funny thing about moving mountains is that nobody tells you how tired you will be afterwards. I felt the stabbing of nausea strike me right as Jessica Fletcher was putting me to sleep with her spotting of random facts in Murder, She Wrote. When morning came, that same feeling told me to take a day off. To stay home. To rest.

I loathe rest.

I would rather be moving mountains.

Truth is, I’m still learning what life looks like for me. I push too hard; I rest too little. But I’m just going to keep stretching my wings. “More often then not,” said my mom as she told me not to second-guess my need to take the day off, “when you stretch your wings you’re going to face the consequences. You’re going to crash. But it’s good for you to keep on trying.” (Paraphrased)

If I’m going to continue to have the strength to stretch my wings then I need to establish some ground rules. Like letting myself take a breather after moving a mountain. Like cherishing post-mountain pajama day and the writing it allowed. Cherishing a day like today, which was nothing like I could have wished for but exactly what I needed.

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