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If You Steal My Sunshine

The weather has been absolute trash this spring…

I mean just awful. When I began to write this message to you, I was sitting in my house with a blanket wrapped around my body because my husband turned off the heating system. I couldn't blame him for doing so… I mean for fuck’s sake, it was the latter part of May in Switzerland.

A couple of weeks back, on my walk with my trusty sidekick, Paco, I got caught in yet another storm. I was prepared for rain, wearing my long navy-blue rain slicker (if you follow me on IG, you already know fashion is my top priority for dog walking) but the jacket doesn’t breathe. It’s like wearing a plastic sweatsuit. As the sky chucked buckets on us, Paco decided to ditch me and bolted for the car.

Soaked to the bone and covered in mud, I found myself laughing at the situation. I might have even jumped in a puddle or two. There was absolutely nothing I could do to keep myself from getting any wetter, so I succumbed to the rain and let it wash over me like some sort of baptism. It seemed to be rinsing away all the pent-up bullshit I’d been carrying around with me.

As I approached the car, I pushed the button on my key fob to open the trunk. Paco jumped in and immediately sprayed the entire car with a shake of his coat. I hit the button to close the door, and just stood there for another minute or two letting the rain pelt my head and shoulders, making sure every single bit of the blahs was washed off me.

I’m gonna share a secret with you. 🤫

For the past couple of months, I’ve been in a funk - a slump, a backslide… God, I hope it’s not a midlife crisis – hell, maybe it is. Whatever it is, it’s been total garbage.

I don’t think I’m the only one my age going through this mid-life shit storm. And, what’s worse is that we feel like we can’t openly talk about it. Are we afraid of what others will think? Do we have too much pride? Is it easier to just push it down and try to forget about it?

So many things are changing in my life, and I feel like I have zero control over them. From the onset of what I think is perimenopause to children becoming adults to aging parents to wondering what the hell I’m going do with my life next… it all weighs on me and keeps me up at night. And I also find myself being uber critical with myself.

⚡ Am I a good enough mom?

⚡ Am I a good enough wife?

⚡ Am I a good enough daughter?

⚡ Am I a good enough friend?

⚡ Am I a good enough coach?

⚡ Am I a good enough writer?

After pondering those lovely questions, I do the unthinkable – I look in the mirror and detail my “flaws”…

I scrutinize my waistline, check out the current location of my boobs, and decide I needed extra camouflage for the dark circles under my eyes. I trace the fine lines around my face (they’re laugh lines, duh, but I can’t see that) and can’t understand why I still get pimples on my chin at 45.

What a rabbit hole of destruction.

I hear the voice in my head say, “Holy Hell, woman. Enough is enough.”

After that joyful experience, I plunge into the deep end to muse why I’m feeling so damn uninspired…

⭐ What am I doing with my life?

⭐ Why do I feel bored?

⭐ How do I want to spend my days when the kids move away?

⭐ What stopped me from taking that opportunity?

⭐ Who am I trying to impress and why?

Without knowing it, I discover I’m coaching myself out of this funk and turning this doom and gloom into a sunny disposition.

While the downward spiral hasn’t exactly been a fun experience, it did force me to stop ruminating in the past and start taking (or at least thinking about how I will take) dynamic action for my future. I can’t dwell on the past, and I’m not a psychic, so I can’t predict the future. I must be present and act for today with the future in mind.

Tormenting myself over my skin not looking like a newborn’s butt or that I can’t fit into a pair of jeans from five years ago (because I’m squatting a lot more at the gym than I was back then), isn’t going to move me forward. It also has nothing to do with my worth. So, bring on middle age because the alternative is so much fucking worse.

My story isn’t over just because my boobs aren’t as perky as they used to be or that my hair is streaked with platinum "blonde" streaks. When my kids go off to live their own lives, I have no doubt I’ll be proud of the people I’ve produced and can’t wait to adult alongside them (I mean it’s bound to be a little funny to watch at times, right?). It’s time to walk confidently into mid-life knowing I don’t have any fucks to give when it comes to what others think of me – what a waste of headspace and energy.

I did the work once. Turns out, I’m going to need to do it again and again and again. Life keeps moving forward, and I keep evolving. And, hate to break it to you - but so do you.

I’m no longer the person I used to be and not yet the person I’m meant to become. 🩷

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