I (gasp) made some resolutions this year. And you know, for the first year (ever) they’re not things like lose weight or write a novel.
Nope. I’ve decided I’m ok with the extra girth I’ve apparently taken to raise. I’m not unhealthy. I’m cutting my losses.
As for writing, I do want to do more. But I’m not creating it as a goal to guilt myself with. It happens when it happens.
My resolutions are more…me. More in line with what will really make me happy and not with what I feel is expected of me.
I resolve to love the ones I call mine. My kids. My family. My husband. To love them without condition and without question.
To give more.
To expect less.
And basically to be happy with being me. With all that entails.