I've been patiently taking it easy in an attempt to let my Achilles' tendon issue resolve itself.
(Something about an angry run on pavement coupled with the fact that my shoes are beat)...oops.
The old me would've pushed through and stubbornly ran a crapload of miles on the beach last week (and would be paying the price now with an even worse injury, I'm sure).
Alas, I'm learning.
Learning to be patient.
Learning that rest and recovery are biggies (wait, I knew that already...I just need to actually do just that; rest & recover. Duh)...
I've been on my bike a bit and as always, riding my bike in the woods makes me happy.
And doesn't seem to aggravate the tendon issue.
A nice, solid jaunt on the trails fixes just about anything (or at least clears my head for a while; you know, making room for stuff that actually matters instead of all the crap I'm constantly worrying about).
Which brings me to...
I'm back at therapy.
It started before I went on vacation (funny timing, right?)...
I've had this sadness/flatness pulling at me for a while...I can't point to a specific cause or stressor or situation.
"It's the biochemical part of depression,"
Is what I've been told.
It's not always circumstantial.
There doesn't have to be a reason.
Therapy is weird and tiring and sometimes awkward and almost always helpful/productive.
I've said it before: No shame in my mental health game.
I'm less than proud of the kind of mom/wife/friend I am when I'm not taking care of myself...
I am fortunate to have options and support and the means to seek out help.
We are in the thick of summertime...
I love July and I'm not ready for it to end.