Me.

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Me.
In 17 days, I will be 30 years old. I’m not scared of 30. I’m indifferent, honestly. There’s a part of me that feels like I’ve accomplished great things in my almost 30 years but most of me feels like I’ve only skirted by and barely made it. The birth of my daughter is the greatest thing to happen in 30 years. Becoming a teacher is an accomplishment. I’m a wife. But I fail miserably at those things on a daily basis. I’m too tired to play with my daughter after work because I’ve spent eight or nine hours prior to coming home giving all my energy to other kids. I’m not a great wife. I don’t cook anymore. I barely clean. I do the bare minimum at life. That is all I have the energy to do. That’s all I have the energy to give. I’m severely overweight. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Thirty years and this is where I’m at. Me. Just a 30 year old body barely making it.

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