I got home from a long day at work to see dishes in the sink, a few cans on the counter and laundry piling up. I remember looking for pants and stopped myself and thought:

I don’t fucking want to. And for a brief moment I felt so much peace. I no longer come home to video games playing loudly, I no longer feel uncomfortable. I no longer feel the need to beg my boss to stay at work to avoid going home because I finally have a home I love. It smells like lavender all the time, my cat welcomes me every night and my son sleeps soundly in his bed.

I’ve been living in my new apartment for two months and for the first time I no longer get anxiety from seeing dishes in my sink. I didn’t feel like a slob because I didn’t fold my laundry right away. I didn’t feel I wasn’t worthy of love and affection because I didn’t make my fucking bed.

The best part about living on my own again is that I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to leave cans by my sink I’m free to do so. If I don’t do my dishes as soon as I use them, that’s okay too. My worth isn’t measured by how “clean” I am. I’m worthy of love even when I’m messy.

They’ll get done. Just when I choose to. And I grabbed my cookies, a juice box, crawled in my bed with my murder shows and relaxed.

I did my dishes this morning after an emotional writing session for my book, I did my laundry and I even made my bed. It may not seem like a lot to some but it was monumental for me.

My best is always enough.

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