I Forgot I Survived

People tell me all the time how strong I am.

Outside of the gym, I detest this compliment.

Strength was never a badge of honor. It was the bill I've had to keep paying.

It's been the result of continuing to live when it felt like there was nothing left to live for. Not once, not twice, but over and over until I lost track of the times I had restarted my life.

It's one thing to crack jokes about how, like, that cat has nine lives.

It's another thing to actually survive multiple lives.

That Little Voice

I tend to measure myself against my failures, the people I've lost, and the goals I've yet to reach.

It keeps me motivated.

Every morning, it asks me if today is finally the day I will fail. Or if I'll go to bed even an inch closer to my goals.

That voice keeps me showing up to my yoga mat and barbell. It keeps me writing and publishing copy. It pushes me to stay disciplined with my finances and my house-cleaning schedule.

It also destroys me from the inside out.

It erodes my confidence in times that I would have been fine had I just stayed out of my head.

Sometimes that voice is helpful.

Last week I almost walked away from a set of squats, but the little voice asked,

"Boling, is this really what's going to make you quit this week?"

I got the squats, and the form was perfect.

I walked away proud and SATISFIED.

Other times, the voice isn't helpful.

Directly after reaching a professional goal, it'll pipe up and ask,

"Who do you think you are? You're still the same white trash you always were."

I wish I could say I can just shake it off and keep going, but sometimes, when I'm tired, and it's been too many days since I rested, it guts me, and for a moment, I really am nothing but white trash.

Sometimes that's the end of my good day.

That's okay.

Tomorrow keeps showing up.

Still Starting

I've changed my mind about who I am over the last six months.

I think I've spent so much time measuring myself by the failures that I completely forgot I survived.

Ridiculous?

Yes.

True?

Also, yes.

I really am still here, still kicking, still starting again every morning.

Starting scared.

Starting ugly.

Starting tired.

Starting alone.

But still starting.

Still surviving.

Still fighting for things much larger and more important than my pitiful human suffering.

What if I do meet those goals and all of this was worth it?

10,959

There's a tattoo on the inside of my dominant wrist.

In typewriter font, stuck out, 10,959.

That's how many days I had to survive to make it to thirty.

I really wish I could say that I've navigated life gracefully, gently, and with poise.

The reality is a lot harsher.

It's ugly and messy, and I've needed to rely on anger and spite to get me through as much as I've needed faith and hope of better days.

My twenties were filled with obstacles I had no idea were ahead, and I made some huge messes trying to get through and around them.

For MOST of my twenties, there were two goals.

These goals were the only thing I thought about and planned for.

I was consumed with becoming a decent mother and maintaining sustaining employment.

Nothing else mattered.

I did not matter to me.

I was a mother.

I was an employee.

It worked by most people's standards.

However, those things don't keep you warm when you're plagued with questions about whether or not you actually enjoy living.

They also don't answer the question of whether or not you're glad you woke up.

So for my thirtieth birthday, I celebrated by putting 10,959 permanently in a place I would not be able to ignore.

Because if I can survive 10,959 days, there's no way in hell I can't survive one more time.

I don't spiral into those thoughts about what if my life is meaningless the way I once did.

I do still have my questions, but now I've programmed my brain into going,

"Really, you can't do this one more time?"

...and then I kinda laugh at myself and keep going.

I've lived over 13,000 days now, surely I've got one more in me.

I still don't know exactly where this life is taking me, but these days, I remind myself of one thing.

I may not always feel safe.

But I've pulled myself out of deeper holes than the one I'm standing in today.

I still have days where fear gets loud.

But I've stopped measuring my life only by what I've failed to become.

Sometimes I stop long enough to remember.

I survived.

 

Thank you for reading.

If any part of this story felt familiar, I hope you'll remember something I forget sometimes too:

You've survived every day that's brought you here.

Take a breath.

Get some rest.

Tomorrow keeps showing up.

—

Ginny Boling
Operations & Community Development Consultant | Founder, The Black Polish Society

Helping organizations and business owners build systems—and lives—they don't have to survive.

Connect with me at ginnyboling.com