I Fell off the Wagon

On finding permission to return

I fell off the wagon.

I’m in a big period of change right now (aren’t we all?). And in the midst - I have magically forgotten almost all of my grounding practices.

Journaling? Don’t know her.

Meditation who?

No one has time for a kitchen dance party!!!

I have been sporadic at best with all of the things that generally keep me feeling safe and sane - and with each day that passes, I badger myself even more.

This morning, I found the space and the courage to pick my journal up, and spent some time weeping and writing into the open arms of her pages. Afterwards, I was blown away at how…simple it was. Almost maddening. If it is this simple (and literally free) to do something for myself that makes me feel eons better - why did I drop her like a Tesla stock? (too soon?)

I’m thinking the answer has something to do with shame. This neurosis is deep, and dated. In referencing 7-year-old Avani’s journals, I noticed that when I skipped a day, I would back-track and fill in the days I missed with my best recollection. Until eventually, I “confessed” to the journal that I had been unfaithful (that immigrant-child-guilt knows no bounds).

There is so much shame laced with “not doing it right,” or “falling off the wagon” – that sometimes, I forget I can just…get back on. I forget that my journal is an inanimate object that, although beloved, has no consciousness with which to judge me. Neither does my yoga mat. Or my kitchen, for that matter.

In other words - the problem is entirely inside of my head. There is no committee measuring me on how good I was at wellness this week. There is only the practice - and how willing I am to pick it up back up again (or not). The “time lost” is a sunk cost - and I can choose whether to sink even more proverbial money, or save some.

I can choose, I can choose, I can choose.

So in case you need to hear this today, too: it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away from something - your page, your mat, your sobriety, your gym - you can choose to return.

You are allowed to come back home.

And I bet you will be welcomed when you do.

A red nose from crying, a forgotten skincare headband, a pile of boxes to be filled, and some pages I call home.