The Kind of Life That Gives Her Butterflies

I am both a mess and a beautiful disaster, a woman finally taking time to soak up the kind of life that gives her butterflies.

I want to write this before the endorphins run away. I want to write this before the pool of sweat sitting on my chest dries and before I peel off the sports bra that’s stuck to my back. I want to write this now so that I don’t ever forget this feeling, this high, this new memory of my current metamorphosis.

Yesterday marks the first workout class I’ve gone to since 2012, which was not-so-coincidentally the same year that I started Twenties Unscripted. Because in 2013 I wrote four days a week. And in 2014 I drove myself up and down walls trying to build a brand. And in 2015 I wrote a book. Year after year, I folded excuses into paper airplanes, sprinkled a balanced version of myself on top of them, and sent them off to outer space. I’d like to think regret is too strong of a word when I look back on that time, but maybe negligence is more fitting. It would be a misnomer to say I ever lost myself during those hustle years; you can’t lose a version of yourself you never had. But you damn sure can arrest the person you’re meant to be if you hold on to the handcuffs of your past.

There comes a time when the whir of the treadmill beneath your feet stops sounding like a song you’d like to keep running to; that happened to me right as the leaves started to fall in 2015. It doesn’t mean I would undo all of the work or uncry any of the tears. I wouldn’t strip my dream of the sacrifice because I don’t believe there would have been any other way to push this boulder uphill. But, now, I have come up for air and there are other dimensions of my life ripe with opportunity. Anaïs Nin would tell you there are other layers. Other constellations. Other stars.

There are other perfect storms inside of me whose winds I am ready to let rip and roar.

If you were to sum up present day in Drake lyrics it would go something like “And, really, I think I like who I’m becoming.” If you wanted to bottle it up according to Nayyirah Waheed it would be: “i am mine. before i am ever anyone else’s.” If you asked Zora Neale Hurston, she would tell you there are years that ask questions and years that answer them; she might even remark that I spent way too many of the early years digging for answers instead of letting life reveal them. And if you wanted to steal the mantra from Shonda Rhimes’, 2016 would be my year of yes. But, if you were to simply ask me, I would tell you that I am both a mess and a beautiful disaster, a woman finally taking time to soak up the kind of life that gives her butterflies.


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