Making a House a Home
By the time you receive this note, it will be my birthday. I’ll be 38 and hopefully logged at the community pool with my kids. I’m not entirely sure what to make of this number, or birthdays anymore, but if you’d like to give me a present (though ofc your presence here is enough!), here’s my wish list:
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About two weeks ago, my family moved into a new home. At the same time, I’ve been turning my focus to getting ready for the release of my next book, which has me feeling all over the place.
I was going to write this week about “being mad at myself,” because I was feeling upset with my 37-year-old self for moving into a new home so close to a book launch. Too many big life changes at once, but also, when one moves, everything is upturned, and I don’t want to go into this book release with my mind a mess (as if, right).
When I was young, my mom would often say she was mad at herself, and I felt so sad for her. I am still breaking the habit of talking this way to myself and feeling this way. So, I don’t want to write about being mad at one’s self, but rather about the work that inspired my regret, which is the work of moving all the stuff we acquire over the years into a new space.
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