Almost a year

/ Cassie / Leave a comment

According to the stories that my mother tells me about my childhood, my favorite song was “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. At around four years old I knew every single word by heart and would sing and dance around my kitchen with a wooden spoon, serenading everyone and anyone that listen to me. If my dad were still alive he would say that story was blasphemy, as my favorite song was “Light My Fire” by The Doors, the cassette on a constant loop in his car at all times growing up. The truth of the matter is, they were probably both right. Or maybe neither was right. I don’t know. But one thing is for certain, I still know the lyrics to both those songs and could recite them with my eyes closed, with no background music. That’s how ingrained they are in me.

Last night I went to a concert; my first since 2019. And even then, it would have been years and years before that one as well. Sometimes I find it funny that I can’t even remember the number of shows I would have gone to in my early 20’s. It seems like I was always there, perpetually soaking up a new sound or lyric that would wind it’s way onto my playlist (when that actually became a thing). For the most part, back then, I let others dictate the new things I would try out or listen to. Assuming, since my friends were the “music people” they would know better than me. I, of course, had some of my own favorites, which are mostly still my favorites to this day, but I never shared much and no one ever asked.

When The Killers released Hot Fuss in June of 2004, I remember listening to that CD constantly for the entire summer. I had just graduated college and was about to leave to move to South Carolina for graduate school, my husband-to-be coming with me as we jumped into the unknown of being 23 and having the whole world ahead of us. And while my marriage didn’t last, my love for The Killers did (in spite of and including their guest appearance on The OC).

Last night, after so many tour and show cancellations, band hiatuses, pandemics, I finally got to see them in concert. The minute they took the stage and played the first note I began crying. I wasn’t a blubbering mess or anything, it was more like the amount of happiness I had couldn’t be contained in that moment and it had to spill out in some way. I had waited so long. I don’t think I’ve smiled that hard in a long time. As the show continued for two hours, with me bopping along singing every single lyric, I began to feel something more than just happiness. It was connection. To the woman with her two elementary school boys she brought to the show. To the older couple all dressed up sitting behind us. Even to the girl I met in the bathroom who was upset that she was missing “the best song” while she waited for her friend to wash their hands (she was wrong though, it wasn’t the best song, but I digress). Here I was, at a sold out concert, singing with over 20,000 other people to some really great music. We were all there for this singular reason: our absolute love of these songs. That idea kind of takes my breath away.

So today, when I woke up tired but invigorated, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to write something instead of losing myself in a book. For the first time in a long time I didn’t want to lose myself in someone else’s world. I wanted to lose myself in my own.

My mom told me once that she visited a psychic when I was younger and they told her my life and my future would have something to do with music. I took piano lessons, learned how to play the clarinet, flute, and violin (I can play zero of them now), but I gave up rather quickly, none of these avenues ever giving me a feeling that I wanted to continue down that road. And don’t get me started my singing. I will sing all day every day but I am terrible with a capital T.

But maybe that’s not what the psychic meant. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was that music was the thing that would actually give me a future, keep me here on this planet long enough to do everything I was meant to do. Maybe it was the thing that would save me at those times I felt very, very un-savable .

I really do think that’s what the universe was always trying to show me. While the whole rest of the world was trying to break me down and grind me to dust, music was going to be the thing to save me. Even when I’m just driving down the road, windows down, the cool breeze rushing in to make me catch my breath, feeling the air hitting my face as I sing as loud as I want. These moments are my life preservers.

These are the times I feel most alive.

Conglomerate

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If you know me even a little bit, you know we are almost at my favorite holiday, New Year’s Eve. Really, what’s not to love? It’s literally a night where the very next day you get to start over. First page of a blank book, clean slate, whatever you want to call it, I love it. With the rip of a calendar page the whole world can begin again. The whole moment is like a baptism, cleansing us of our past sins and birthing us a new with mere tick of the clock. The whole concept, if you really think about it, is genius.

I’ve been looking back a lot lately (I know, I know, just hear me out for a minute). I mean don’t we all do it? Our instagram “top nine”. Throw back Thursday. Flash back Friday. We don’t even need to wait until New Year’s to look back, we have a hashtag for it all. So, in true New Year’s Eve loving Cassie fashion I decided to look back on some old writing. I’ve had this blog since 2013 which means I have upwards of 8 other posts about my love for this holiday, how my life is going to be so different. Even if I hadn’t written for months, I always found it obligatory to document what was going to be my great transformation into a “new year” and a “new me”. Looking back sure didn’t disappoint in that assumption. Post after post of “this is all the crap that happened this year” and “next year is going to be the best ever. I’m going to make it my year.” Blah, Blah, Blah. I’m nothing if not consistent it seems.

There was the year I was going to be brave, the year I was going to let things go, the year I was going to be strong, the year I was going to leave all my baggage behind. The year I was going to grow up. Year after year. Post after post. Of me simply stating everything that was wrong with me and how next year I was gong to fix it all. I mean, the word resolution in and of itself means to find a solution to a conflict or problem. Is that really how I want to see myself? As a problem to be fixed?

For a minute there, I lost myself.

No, that’s not entirely true. I keep thinking this so often. That I lost myself. That I need to find myself. That I need to “get back” to that girl I was before. Just follow the bread crumbs and they will lead where you need to go. But back to what? Even I don’t know the answer to that question. I am almost 41 years old and I can honestly say, without a doubt, that I have no idea who I am. And no, this not in a “I need to find my calling” or “chase my passion” type thing. But seriously, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt comfortable in my own skin.

When I was little, we learned about rocks in elementary school and the one that has stuck with me the most is conglomerate. I don’t know if you remember your elementary school science lessons, but conglomerate isn’t all that exciting. It’s basically a bunch of rocks all pushed together and held together with some sort of binder (clay, cement, etc.). And that’s me. Not shiny. Not exciting. No even my own rock. I’m just a mixture of all the stuff people have pushed on me. I’ve molded to fit the categories I need to fit. And I’ve done a really great job of that for a lot of years.

The time has come,’ the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.’

The time has come.

Maybe it’s best to start with what I know. Things that I know are me and no one else. My favorite color is green, mostly because it’s the color of grass and leaves and life. I love the smell of campfire more than anything and sometimes after sitting outside in front of one, I won’t wash my shirt and sleep with us under my pillowcase so I can fall asleep to the scent. Honeysuckles are the most amazing flowers. I can be silly and flirty sometimes, but I don’t see them as bad things. I’m way to sarcastic for my own good. I’m insanely competitive and I like to be challenged. I have a song for every mood and I save song lyrics like some people save fortune cookie fortunes. I am little superstitious. I believe in the universe and karma. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’m not too sure I believe in fate either. I’d rather be reading than doing most things and chances are if you are talking to me while I’m reading I am not listening to a word you say (but I’ll nod and pretend I am anyway). If I put my book down for you, you’re special. My favorite song has been my favorite song since I was 10. I have a favorite poem and I read it once a week. My favorite thing is to drive around, listen to music and sing (yes even with gas prices this high and yes, even as badly as I sing). There’s so much more, but I love that each and every one of these things is unfiltered me. They are me regardless if I’m a wife, or mother, or teacher. They stand independent of my roles in life.

Maybe instead of claiming some arbitrary change that I’m going to start making in the New Year, I actually do the opposite. I work. I grow. I learn. But I stay who I am. I stop apologizing for making myself fit into other peoples lives by molding myself to fit into their spaces.

Maybe, I stop being conglomerate. Shine bright like a diamond and all jazz.

Heavy

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I have at least 20 different half written posts or ideas floating around in the notes section of my phone, but as I sit down to write I don’t even know what to say. Some of the topics are long winded, others emotional, and honestly, I don’t think I have it in me to do long or emotional right now. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

January has always been a big month in our house. When the calendar resets on January 1st, we tend to reset too. Big plans and big adventures begin forming before we’ve even had our morning coffee and sometimes we go a little too hard and fast for a few weeks, leaving us exhausted and spent half way through. Adding to this, of course, is the double birthdays, mine and Oliver’s, just two days a part at the end of the month. And this year, they’re big ones for both of us. For him it’s his jump into the double digits (how in the world I have two kids in the double digits, I will never know) and for me it’s the mind boggling leap into 40. Don’t worry, there will be a whole other post about that.

But as usual, I digress.

January is heavy. And really, it’s heavy in good ways and bad. Resolutions and birthdays and work and cold and gratefulness and stress and loneliness and fun and exhaustion and and and and…

You get the gist.

Maybe I need to learn to ask for help so things won’t be so heavy. Maybe I need to learn not to pick up so much at one time so things won’t be so heavy.

Really, what I need to learn is that even though you picked it up and you marked it as important, if it is heavy, PUT IT DOWN.

Take a break. Pick it up later. If it is important it will still be there. Maybe by then it will be a little easier to hold. Maybe things will be a little more manageable. Maybe you’ll be a little stronger, or maybe it just won’t be as heavy. Either way, you’ll be happier.

Making a House a Home

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Did you know…this is the longest I have ever lived in one house since I was seventeen years old? In fact, since I was seventeen I have lived in three different states, countless cities, and 14 different houses/apartments, and none of them for more than two years.

We moved every few years as I was growing up, so I guess it’s just a concept that has stuck with me in my twenties and thirties. I would pick a place, settle, and then immediately start looking for the next best thing. The better college, the better city, the better apartment, the better opportunity. I always felt that I had to keep moving. To slow down was to get complacent. To slow down would cause me to really look at my self and face my unhappiness. Instead of looking for something new and better I would be forced to discover why “this moment in time” was not working for me. To slow down was to die.

When we picked this house, we did so in a hurry. My current situation was dangerous and the longer I stayed the more dangerous it became, not only for me for my the kids too. I was trying to stay for as long as I could, simply to help ease the transition for leaving, for all of us leaving. But as someone who was the only provider in a house of five for the past 8 years, someone with three small children, and someone who had nothing extra to offer, I had no where to go. That is until Joe stepped in and decided he would buy a house for us. Sure we had just started dating, but we knew my situation was dire.

We looked for a while but there was always something wrong with the house: schools weren’t good, not enough bedrooms, no dining room, too far of a drive. Until one day we were simply driving through one of my old neighborhoods in the rain. As we drove down the street, the sun came out and a rainbow appeared…at the same exact moment that we saw the for sale sign. We had looked online in this neighborhood so many times, but had never seen this house listed. Joe made an offer the next day and two months later, on another rainy day in August we moved in.

We furnished it with random odds and ends found in our basements, on facebook marketplace, and Ikea. for almost a month we didn’t even have a dining room table and the kids would sit and eat on the window seat in our dining room.

Slowly but surely we filled the house with furniture and books, pictures and toys, laughter and our own personalities. But as someone who was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, I never let myself really settle. I couldn’t “invest” in this house as my home yet. To invest would have been to be happy, and there were far too many unknowns.

Two and a half years later, when my divorce was finalized and my custody battle won, the house had fulfilled its purpose. It was my savior in a truly harmful situation. The calm from my storm. My safe haven in a sea of turmoil and doubt. It was the place I was able to rebuild my life and my family and start the long process of coming home to myself. So do we stay or do we go? Do we pick up and start over again, or begin the process of making this house a home?

“Home is wherever you leave everything you love and never question that it will be there when you return.”

Every single thing I love is here. I think we’ve made the right decision.

It’s the Final Countdown

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(If you sung that title in your head while reading it, we can be friends)

If you know me even a little bit, you know we are almost at my favorite holiday, New Year’s Eve. Really, what’s not to love? It’s literally a night where the very next day you get to start over. First page of a blank book, clean slate, whatever you want to call it, I love it. With the rip of a calendar page the whole world can begin again. We essentially get to go to bed one night and be reborn the next morning as we embark on a new year.

I’ve had this blog since 2013 which means this will be my 8th year of posting a New Year’s Eve post. Even if I hadn’t written for months, I always found it obligatory to document what was going to be my great baptism into a “new year” and a “new me”. Looking back sure didn’t disappoint in that assumption. Post after post of “this is all the crap that happened this year” and “next year is going to be the best ever. I’m going to make it my year.” Blah, Blah, Blah. I’m nothing if not consistent it seems.

2013 was the year I was going to “rest and reflect” after a mother’s day miscarriage, my dad dying, and major heartbreak. But…it was also the year I found running, which I wouldn’t have done had 2013 been all hearts and flowers. 2014 was the year of shedding all that 2013 had burdened me with. It was also the year that I became pregnant with Charlotte and ran (and walked) a half-marathon at almost 5 months pregnant. I look back at that girl sometimes, completely in awe of how much she was able to overcome and how she really stuck to all the goals that she set out to achieve.

Fast forward to 2017. The hard year. The worst year. The year with the least amount of blog posts. The year I had no desire to document or ever hear from again. But also…the year I left home for good. The year I got out of a very toxic and harmful marriage. The year I finally had a little courage. The year I was brave. 2018 and 2019 almost look like mirror images. These were the years I was going to stop quitting things. These were the years I was going to let my baggage go. These were the years that I was going to finally be that grown-up version of myself that I was supposed to become.

And for the most part, I did become that person. 2020 was no joke. I know this year was tough for a lot of people, and I definitely had my share of bitter moments. There were the two miscarriages in May and June. There was the small, though significant breakdown in January. There was the sadness of missing my friends due to Covid 19. But there was also so much wonderfulness that came out of 2020. I finally got divorced and won my custody battle. We took so many trips as a family. We adopted two wonderful puppies. Because of virtual schooling I got to spend so much time with my kids, which is exactly what I had spent the past two years fighting for. For the most part, it was a good year.

The time has come,’ the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.’

The time has come.

For the first time I’m not going into a new year hoping to completely the slate clean and start all over. Do I have goals and plans for 2021? Absolutely. But that’s not this post. I am in a constant state of evolution. And this year is even more different as it’s also the year I turn 40 in a little under a month. Instead this is just going to be the year that I work. On my family, on my relationships, and mostly on myself. It feels like I FINALLY have the other parts of my life under control and now there are no more excuses. I’m allowed to try hard.  I’m allowed to be good at things. Hell, I’m allowed to be bad at things.  I’m allowed to love you too much and tell you about it.  I’m also allowed to tell you why you are hurting my feelings if you are.  I’m allowed to take a break from people who aren’t letting me be me and are constantly trying to put me down to make themselves feel better.  I’m allowed to be who I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, it’s their loss.

Most of all, I am allowed to shed all of the stuff from my past that is not working for me any more. Opinions, judgments, people, fears, assumptions. Boy, bye.

“Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Traditions

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I don’t know how long ago it started, but it all started with eggs and chocolate milk.

One Sunday, I decided to make a big Sunday breakfast. We had eggs, hash browns, bacon, fresh fruit, and chocolate milk. I remember letting Charlotte make the chocolate after she begged and begged, wincing inwardly as she painstakingly poured the milk into a mason jar before mixing in the chocolate. We all sat down to eat together at 9, two hours after we woke up, as we tend be rather slow and lazy on Sundays. They all ate every bite. And then asked for more. And then asked for it again the next weekend. So we did.

Thus, a new tradition was formed. We call it Sunday Breakfast and it is our favorite meal of the week.

I know this may seem like an insignificant event, but to us, especially to me, it was huge. When I left my marriage, I was so worried about the kids. Not so much Charlie, as she was only two, but the boys. They had been there for all the parts; the good, the bad, and the extremely terrible. I felt like I was treading an extremely fine line with our new family set-up. I wanted to start new traditions with them, traditions built out of love and new beginnings, while also making sure they didn’t think I forgot all of our past. Emotionally, I was a wreck almost all of the time.

But that changed with Sunday Breakfast. I could see now that blending the old with the new wasn’t as much a fine line as it was a balancing act. It was OK to incorporate new ideas and new traditions. After all we were a new family and had a newfound hope in finding our happiness in our “new way”. We now have bedtime traditions, summer vacation traditions, different holiday traditions, and even a new December beach week-end tradition. Each one we make together reminds me just how important these changes are.

It reminds me how much I had to fight in order to get to make new traditions in the first place. How much blood, sweat, and tears (so many tears) i shed in order to make this work. Really, that makes all these new traditions we are creating worth more than anything.

And in just a few days, we can enjoy it all over Sunday Breakfast.

The Home Sign

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Charlotte has this tradition. Ok, maybe it’s not really a tradition, but it’s something she always says and does. Whenever we drive a certain way on 695 we pass a big sign right before we reach our exit. I have passed this sign probably a million times in my life and I, for the life of me, can’t even tell you what it really says. I think it’s for a sofa store? Or maybe a gym? I don’t know. But Charlotte calls it “the home sign”.

Every single time we pass it she shouts out “Look! It’s the home sign! We’re almost home.” And sure enough, we are. None of us have ever really bothered to correct her on this. Obviously we know it doesn’t say Home on it. Even the more skeptical among us (cough, Oliver, cough) have even begun calling it that ourselves. It doesn’t matter what it says. We know what it means. We are almost home.

It’s so strange to think we have lived in this house for about three and a half years. It honestly feels like we have always been here; in this house, in this little neighborhood. The first three years of the separation were fight after fight with my ex. The biggest one always being that he refused to acknowledge that this home, the one I created from love after I left the one that was filled with so much hate and animosity, was the kid’s home. He would repeatedly tell me and the children, that this was not their home. They had one home, and it was the one that they lived in with him. Even after the courts granted me legal joint and physical custody, stating unequivocally that in the eyes of the law this was their house too, he still would repeat it. And even still, 10 months after we were finally divorced, 40 months after I left the most toxic relationship I had ever been in, even to this very day, he still says it.

For the longest time, it would cause me to fly into a blind rage. I would send long worded emails and text messages telling him to stop, telling him to accept what has happened, telling him that he was causing more harm to everyone than good. And then one day (way longer than it should have taken me) I just stopped. And it was all because of the home sign.

I finally realized I don’t care if that’s what he believes. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter that that is what the court system has dictated. What matters is that my little three believe it. And they do, wholeheartedly. Because we have a home sign. We know that this is home.

A few weeks ago I decided, against my better judgement, to let all the kids pile their stuff into Charlotte’s room for a sleepover. I knew it meant a late night and an early morning, but it was a holiday weekend and I had four glorious days off of work (and probably a glass or two of wine), so I said why not. But then a funny thing happened. No kids lasted at the sleepover. Every single one simply wanted to sleep in their own bed. I thought it odd at first and then it hit me. I had made them so comfortable here that wanted to be in their own spaces. They liked their spaces. They felt like home. And that’s because they are.

It’s funny. Joe and I are always house dreaming, looking for places with big yards (so I have can backyard chickens), enough bedrooms, and a driveway (for my RV of course), but as much fun as it is to look, I don’t know if I really want to move. I love this house. Sure it has it’s problems, but what house doesn’t? We have great neighbors, a fantastic neighborhood, playgrounds, food trucks, everything we could possibly want. And those aren’t even the biggest reasons to stay. The biggest reasons transcend all of that. This is where I found love. This is where I was able to be free. This is where my new story was able to begin. This is home.

The Kids are Alright

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Comparison is the thief of joy. It really is.

I know I’m guilty of the comparison trap, especially when it comes to my kids. I feel like I’m constantly measuring their accomplishments based on what other people post about their kids on social media. I know I need to stop, I do. But when I see that so-and-so’s kids could do XYZ at a certain age and mine couldn’t, I feel like a mama failure. Where did I drop the ball? I should have worked with them harder. I should have done more academically with them instead of letting them run around with boxes on their head screaming for the whole neighborhood to hear.

We spend so much time bragging sharing about our kids on social media, I feel like we miss the point sometime. Now don’t get me wrong, if you are proud of your kiddo and their accomplishments share away. I love reading them and cheering along with you. But I have to tell you, my favorite posts are the ones that tell it like it is. That show the struggles. That show the behind the scenes mess. Maybe it’s just me, but I love a good underdog story.

So, for those of you who are like me, who constantly feel inadequate and feel like you should be doing more, this is for you. This post is about my kids and how incredibly human they are. It’s for those mamas who are always feeling like they aren’t doing enough. Or they feel like they are failing. Or dropping the ball. Or a myriad of other things we are constantly telling ourselves to belittle the amount of amazing, life altering work we do.

Max couldn’t read by the end of kindergarten. At all.

Charlotte is 5 and still can’t write her name. We’re working on it. She gets a couple letters in order, but then messes up.

Oliver is the klutziest kid I have ever met. And as a teacher I have met A LOT of kids. He drops EVERYTHING. And falls ALL THE TIME.

Max still has a hard time with tying his shoes.

Charlotte still wets the bed at night.

Oliver is a cry baby. In a good way, but he is. He will dish out the attitude like a 17 year old and the minute you call him on it or give it back…big fat tears.

I don’t say these things to belittle my kids. Not at all. I just feel like so many times we tend to focus on the accomplishments of our kids and not the struggles that got them there. And I am a mama that sometimes needs to see that there was a struggle. I need the real life version. Basically, I need to know that I am not alone with my less than perfect life.

That boy who couldn’t read at 6? He’s in GT English now and reads 2-3 grade levels ahead.

That girl who still can’t write her name? She has the vocabulary and comprehension skills of a second grader.

My klutzy boy? He made the all star soccer team this year.

Their wins are there. They win at something every single day. But they struggle too. And I am 100 percent OK with that. They are all a mixture of a masterpiece and a mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Truth

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I went to bed last night with the burning desire to go for a run in the morning. “I’m going to do it” I told myself. I will get up in the morning and go for a run before Joe has to leave. Visions of the “before time” when I would run miles and miles for fun and alone time danced in my head as I listened to the office and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was still determined. While I did linger in bed for a bit, I got up, got myself dressed found my headphones and set off. I was just going to start Couch to 5K back up, knowing that I was no where near where I had been. I started off with my five minute warm up walk and was feeling great. It was still dark out, and honestly, this is my favorite time to run, before the whole world wakes up. Suddenly the Couch to 5K shouted out “Let’s jog” and I was ready…

Until I absolutely wasn’t. My right knee hurt. My left foot hurt. my gait was all wrong. Everything was off. It was only a minute but it felt like an eternity. After the second or third time I decided to just walk for the rest of the 30 minutes.

Now, you may think this makes me a quitter. And up until last night around 10 pm. I would have one hundred percent agreed with you. But I was proud of myself. I stopped when something was painful (not uncomfortable, but actually painful) but I still finished out the exercise in some way instead of feeling intensely defeated and just heading home and throwing myself a pity party all day.

For the rest of my walk I forced myself to face some fast and hard truths about this situation. It has been MONTHS since I have run at all and YEARS since I have really run (as in not Couch to 5K with stops built in). The separation and divorce years were not good to me, both mentally and physically. If I am being completely honest, they broke me. It has literally taken me this long to try and attempt to put myself back together, and I’m not only to lie it is extremely hard. I feel like I lost all of myself, including the parts that I loved and I am just now feeling strong enough to try and get them back.

But it’s going to be an incredibly hard road. Just because you’ve done it once, doesn’t mean it’s easier the second time. I am almost the same weight as I was at my heaviest in 2013…a number I swore to myself I would never see again. When I really started running I was almost 40 pounds lighter than I am now. And when I was training for half marathons and marathons I was 60-70 pounds lighter. As much as I want to rush and skip steps just to try to be where I once was, I know this is not the answer. I need to take my time. I need to relearn the basics. I need to find the correct path, the one where it may be hard and treacherous, but I’ll come out stronger in the end.

I really feel that girl I once was is still in there, just waiting for the opportunity to come out and shine.

She is. I know she is. She’s just going to take a little while to do it. And that’s ok.

My Apologies

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The other day I was taking one of our new puppies for a walk around the neighborhood. Bella was a stray before she came to us and new people can sometimes seem like a threat. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to her likes and dislikes, but she always warms up after a few minutes. While we were walking we passed someone and she started barking. The first thing out of my mouth, of course, was “I’m sorry.” The very nice lady at me and said “No need to apologize. She’s a dog, that’s what they do.”

That’s when it dawned on me that I was apologizing FOR my dog acting like a dog. And then it also hit me that I do this A LOT in my life. I apologize for other people, or for myself, acting in ways that define our personalities. I apologize for Oliver being too “much” or too loud, or too energetic. I apologize for Max for his strange excitement and intensity. I apologize for Charlotte’s sass (well maybe I should apologize for that one).

I do the same thing with myself. I constantly apologize for facets of my personality that others might not deem important or enjoyable. My dark humor. My introvertedness. My love of sharing hilarious memes. My political views.

But this is where it stops. No more apologizing for being myself. No more apologizing for my people (and animals) living their best life and knowing who they are. We only get to do this once. We may as well have a little fun and surround ourselves with the people who love us just the way we are.