I turned 25 last year and went through some major life changes. My husband and I moved from Georgia to South Carolina, leaving behind jobs that were less than fulfilling in favor of pursuing positions with our church. We loaded up our hand-me-down possessions in a U-Haul and set out for what I thought would be an entirely new life. For months before, I had prayed and cried and prayed and cried for an open door, a way out of what my life had become. I was struggling with loneliness and comparison, and my anxiety and depression had reared its ugly head, now, stronger than ever before. It was a Saturday morning — I had been up all night with leg cramps that had forbidden me to rest, and I told my husband to take me to the doctor before I lost my nerve. Now, I take a little pink pill every day in order to keep my chemicals in check.
The truth is, some days I still feel like a scared kid trying to navigate this weird world of adulthood. I don’t always want to clean my room, sometimes I want to eat Lucky Charms for dinner, and Sallie Mae is like a taunting playground bully. But other days, I do okay, and I know it is due, at least in part, to this recent realization: life is a race, and it is not a race.
Life is a race, and it is not a race. I must have been driving, because all my deep thinking takes place in the car. At first, I was baffled. What does that even mean? Since then, I’ve unpacked it a bit.