It’s the last day of the semester.
I don’t know what I feel. Exhausted. Elated. Hungry for caramel corn.
Vanilla- and cinnamon-scented candles flicker, flames casting oddly-shaped shadows on the walls. The wiener dog snores softly next to me. All the schoolbooks are put away. I can read whatever I want to for six weeks. I might spend a good bit of time reading the inside of my eyelids. Someone said that grad school tired is a whole different kind of tired. It’s true.
Kate says: rush.
Today is leg day.
I loathe leg day.
I’d rather go for a run than do squats and lunges, and that’s saying something right there.
But I laced up my shoes, grabbed my weights, and pressed “play.” Forty-five minutes later, I was a sweaty mess – but a happy one. Happy because I recognized the progress. I’m stronger than I was when I first decided to take fitness seriously. I don’t enjoy the squats and lunges, but I can do them. I can also throw a mean cross punch and hold a solid plank.
But that didn’t happen overnight. There was no rushing the progress. No shortcuts. We all want the magic pill and the quick solution, but they don’t exist. You have to put on your tennis shoes and do the thing.
That’s got me thinking about the rest of my life. I think I somehow manage to over-complicate and over-simplify, often simultaneously. But maybe all that’s ever required is to show up, willing to do the work, one little bit at a time.
Maybe there’s joy and purpose to be found in the slow, steady, and sweaty.