Today started with the usual, notorious feeling of panic in my chest. Another day. Twenty four more hours. These days, they just keep coming.
I have high hopes for the following day the night before. I sit in my comfy pyjamas, the security of the walls of my home surrounding me. Peaceful sleeping children tucked up in their character duvets. I’m warm and safe with a belly content and full of carbs, the flicker of a softly glowing Yankee fragrancing the air with gingerbread. Life is good. I plan ahead that tomorrow will be a good day: I’ll wake early, I’ll make breakfast in advance of hearing those elephant bumps down the stairs as my gorgeous boys greet me, rubbing their eyes, bed heads proudly on show. I’ll double check lunchboxes, pack the changing bag and get dressed, calm and with optimism. I’ll smile at myself in the mirror on the way out. We’ll leave the house on time and practically skip to school drop off.
But then tomorrow comes and as I open my sleep deprived eyes that feeling comes. The knot, the self doubt, the worry. Can I really do another day?
I pushed past that feeling today and we left the house, albeit a little late (and there was no skipping involved!) Today was a good day. We walked through the park and I inhaled the crisp morning air; the winter breeze catching my skin, reminding me that I am here, I’m present.