Y’all, I stopped writing. I just stopped. I’ve also stopped doing much walking, stretching, or other activity for more months than I care to admit.

Rest is critical / stasis can be poisonous. Author’s note: If you’re getting nervous, you can relax. This is not a weight loss story.

I felt angry at my legs for not carrying me further, and at my lower back for aching me to a halt. I felt jealous toward the writing accomplishments of my friends, when I should have been so proud. But I’m feeling a bit new this morning. I made a new friend last night who teared up as she told me how much writing her instagram blog has changed her life, and talking with her reminded me that it’s not followers or success that make a writer, it’s work, practice, and feeling that calling.

I’m at a conference and walking around 15,000 steps a day (I revived my old, dead fitbit so I could see). I’m tired and sore and I have swollen feet, but I’m learning so much. I’ve been breathless, trying to keep up with others who are taller or more able than I am. I can feel these two ideas linking up in my mind, limping back up to my consciousness in lockstep. I can write, maybe even move more, and protect myself as well.

I think I have the chance to push myself and forgive myself today. That feels right.

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