There are days where I’m fuelled with blinding passion, rising before the sun, and begrudgingly calling it a night when there are still essays churning and burning inside of me, waiting to be poured out.
There are others where I snooze my 5.30 a.m. alarm and struggle to get my fuzzy mind to drag my body from the cozy sheets.
Some days I want to be around people. I want to leave the house. I want to be a social butterfly, gliding from one meaningful conversation to the next, spreading rays of sunshine as I go.
Other days, I want to stay inside. I want to be a hermit crab just like the stars made me to be, and I want to revel in solitude, getting lost in my own clouds of thought.
There are days where my life feels in total alignment. My purpose is clear, like the dreamy turquoise waters of a remote, rugged coast. I sit, and I write, and everything makes total sense.
But there are others where I have no idea why I do any of the things I do. None of it makes sense. And everything feels in vain.
Some days, I believe in my voice and my power. I am sure of the woman I am becoming. I know all of the things I’ve been dreaming of are within reach; not a matter of if, but when.
Other days, I find my mind trapped in a negative minefield. I’m unable to celebrate how far I’ve come, and I begin to slide down that slippery slope of fear.
There are days when I feel insanely sexy. I’m a supermodel yet to be discovered. My beauty radiates from my big brown eyes, my infectious smile, and the way I carry my slight and softly curved body with integrity.
But there are still days where I feel all kinds of urgh. I begin to shrivel back into that timid, not-good-enough girl I parted ways with years ago. The imperfections I thought I’d made peace with try and wrestle their way to center stage, as I commence battle with them once again.
There are days where I write long to-do lists and smash every single one out of the park.
There are others where the night sets in, and I wonder what I spent the past 12 hours doing…
Some days, the words run freely to me, like a bleeding river flowing from a height.
Yet there are days where I sit at a blank screen for hours and wonder if I should dare call myself a writer?
There are days where I love nothing more than to paint some makeup on my face, brush my unruly cocoa tresses, and step into my favorite floral dress.
But there are many days where I scrape my hair into a scruffy bun, throw on a grey hoodie and my favorite jeans, and don’t feel able or willing to make more of an effort.
There are days where I nourish my body with plenty of water, clean and wholesome foods, and I pencil in time to hit the yoga mat or dive into the swimming pool.
Other days everything slides, my work consumes me, and I reach for quick sugar highs, and the fatty, salty snacks that taste so good as they mix and melt on my tongue.
Some days are good days. The sun is shining. A great song comes on the radio. My boyfriend puts his arms around me as I wash the dishes, and hugs me softly from behind. I feel awake and alive. Abundance is all around me. And it feels like everything is going my way.
Some days are not so good. In fact, some days are totally shit. I feel stuck in the same place I was a month ago. I get some bad news. I read something that sprouts jealousy or rage through my heart. I’m fighting with someone I love. And life doesn’t seem all that fair.
But our lives, just like our hearts, are made from shadow and of light.
There are days where this crazy world and my place within it makes total sense to me. I feel like I am where I’m meant to be right now, and everything that is happening to me is happening on purpose, and with good reason.
But on those other days, I’m not so sure. I struggle with tales of other’s pain and heartache, and I wonder how that could possibly be on purpose? And I grapple with being one of the lucky ones, instead of resigned to a constant state of suffering.
There are days where I’m ready to stand up and show everyone who I am. I feel ready to climb mountains, to cross oceans, and to survive endless rejection.
But there are still days where all I want to do is curl up into a ball on the floor in a baggy sweatshirt, and quietly drown in a puddle of self-pity.
Because life sometimes hits us hard. Harder than we’re ready for.
You see, some days I am a masterpiece. A rainbow of colors shining brightly through the streets, lighting up the walls of any darkened room.
Other days, I am a work of art in progress.
And I’m okay with that.