Boobs and all their accoutrements have been the last thing on my mind these past 9 months. Well, almost the last thing, because I can’t just ditch ‘em the way I did blue jeans due to the death of a social life. I work with them daily whether gymming or not and despite a year that has given much ponderance to the great bra debate, other things made me push pause on the business of breasts.
Molly T. has been hard. Just look at my last Instagram post (September, if that's any indication of how little space I had for MT) of me obscuring my face and entirely too thin from the weight of it all: stress, life, the collective and personal anxiety nearly at me alive.
I share this less to air any woe is me sentimentalities so much as to acknowledge and sit with a reality that too often I’ve tried to rationalize away.
When I first wrote about 2020 at the dawn of the new year -- an entry now of the most exquisite “hindsight is 2020”-ness -- my post was cautiously foreboding. “Something is different in the twilight of this decade,” I noted. Yet I went on to dim my better instincts and contour this ominous glow to the perky 2020 visions of my peers.
Though the year got progressively worse for reasons way beyond my control, there were definitely parts of it that would have been lighter had I listened to my gut.
I'm now in a place of more clarity; better equipped to cut through the noise and what I've realized is this: listening is the key to seeing, seeing what's right for you in that perfect 2020 vision we could all only hope for.
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