Lately, life has felt like one long shrug emoji.
If you read my last post, you probably felt the spiral. I definitely did while writing it. My emotions were fully in the driver’s seat, narrating a story about “falling off the wagon” and failing before the year had even started. Looking back now, I can see that for what it was: frustration talking louder than clarity.
Because the truth is, I didn’t fall off anything.
I asked for my job back at the hotel after leaving the week of Thanksgiving, and now I’m sitting in that uncomfortable in-between space, waiting to see what happens next. I genuinely don’t know what it’s going to feel like walking back into a place I once needed to leave. There’s no neat emotional bow here. Just a lot of unknowns and a deep breath.
Honestly, the only real upside of not working was when I got sick. I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. No guilt texts. No awkward calls. I stayed in bed and let myself feel miserable in peace. Between being sick and starting new meds that make me unbelievably sleepy, my days blurred together. I didn’t do much. I didn’t want to do much. And maybe that was exactly what my body needed, even if my brain kept insisting I should have been more productive.
I did try, though. I went on three different job interviews, which felt very “new year, new me” at the time. Nothing came from them. Beggars can’t be choosers, and stability is still stability, so going back to work feels like the most practical next step. If nothing else, it’s a way to re-enter my life instead of watching it happen from under my comforter.
In a strange way, going back to work might also be the real test of whether my meds are actually doing what they’re supposed to do. This past month has felt really shitty. I’ve been spacey, emotionally reactive, and making rushed, emotion-based decisions. Like seriously considering kicking a friend out of my book club because she hasn’t been reading the book. Writing that sentence out is enough of a reality check on its own.
My body has also been doing its own chaotic thing. At one point I genuinely thought I might be pregnant, which sent me spiraling quietly in my own head. I haven’t told anyone, and ever since getting the Depo shot, I truly don’t know what the fuck is going on with my hormones. It’s exhausting not trusting your own body or recognizing its signals.
So instead of dramatic resets or perfectly curated resolutions, I’m trying something smaller this year. Tiny, monthly goals. Especially around movement. The long-term hope is to lose 75 pounds, but I’m realistic enough to know that the real win is consistency, not perfection. Doing something regularly feels better than aiming too high and burning out by February.
There are a lot of changes happening right now. Some planned. Some accidental. Some still completely up in the air. I’m choosing to hope they’re good ones. Or at least useful ones. And maybe going back to work, as uncomfortable as it feels, is part of figuring out what’s actually working and what isn’t.
For now, I’m just trying to show up — messy, tired, a little bruised, but still here and still trying to align with the season I’m actually in.
One step at a time.
