There’s no practicing. Only doing.
If I ever fall in love, it won’t be with a man who talks about the weather.
We are layered creatures of extremes and sharp habits in a world that insists we should be softer, more acceptable, more lovable.
I made a habit of feeling guilty—of being sorry—for being who I am. For doing what I do. All the time. And I know I’m not the only one. I know there are many of us, and we all have our own reasons for being overly apologetic.