This last year, I am most proud of the things I didn’t do — the steps I didn’t get, the books I didn’t read, and the calories I didn’t count.
Historically, at the end of a year, I announce everything from Spotify Wraps to Top Nine photos to FitBit Steps to MyFitnessPal macros and micros. I diligently post about how many miles I walked and how I dominated my reading goals. I report on new countries visited and favorite, low-calorie recipes. Sigh.
Like far too many recapping the same success, this didn’t exactly mean I was happy. I was driven, sure. That drive came with a price.
Somewhere circa 2015, I was either physically gone or emotionally checked out. First, my relationship snapped, coming to a full, regrettable head as I literally yelled at a ticketing agent on the phone, bawling big, snotty tears, insisting that I could no longer afford these event tickets because I had to move out and that by not refunding me these tickets, I was going to lose my job! Dejected, I sat heavily on the ground, no life left in my legs after giving up on what to pack when you’re leaving – ten thousand miles from familiar with no place to go and no legal right to stay in the country if I were to stay gone. I had taken our relationship to the edge of nowhere, too far from anywhere to feel familiar or know how to get out.
My disorganized nature moved from fear to absolute avoidance. And yet, nothing in my life scared me more than feeling absolutely quiet about the most important things. I simply had nothing to say. To anyone.
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Cassandra "Caz" Stark 