For the longest time I believed that if I just tried hard enough I could do better. Now I’m settling into accepting that maybe there are just some things I’m not meant to do. What does it even mean to fly? I do a lot of things well, excellent actually. To the point of burnout. I don’t know how to manage excellence with pacing. I can’t afford basic living expenses some times. It feels as if the ramp towards living financially independently after decades of financial abuse is getting farther away from me. Debt I’m carrying many years post divorce, interest rates exorbitant, some days I feel like I’m a drowning bird. Maybe the debt is the emotional heaviness of feeing like I have failed over and over as a human. Today I just want to sit on a perch and rest. I don’t want to fly any more. At 42, my body is aching and my feet blistered and sore. My hips sore, and my lower back heavy. The weight of my chest is pulling my shoulders in. I see hopelessness for the future of women, political ...