This June I will have been living away from my beloved Pittsburgh for three full years. Three full years hits me hard. Three years is the time frame in which by most standards things are permanent. Fill out a credit application, have you lived at your address for three years? Cool, no need to pony up any previous addresses. I may be wrong but I also think it’s the time frame that if you sell a home the taxes owed on the sale drop dramatically.
I started writing this thinking that three years had some other significant meaning in the bigger world in general. I could only come up with those two examples. I guess three years is just a big deal for me. My life seems to have split very neatly in three year compartments of time. Three years before the next big transition.
The transition for the next three years seems supremely obvious. I’ll be learning how to be a mother of two. I’ll be shedding tears while I send my first baby off to school. I’ll be bracing myself for another move. I’ll be trying to finally shed this extra layer of “me” that has been holding my back.
Those are the obvious things to come.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the possibility that maybe some of my predictions for my next three years could be wrong. Maybe I’ll be really good at this mother of two thing; maybe I’ll find my groove quickly. Maybe I’ll finally value myself enough to not be afraid of putting my health on the fore front. Maybe we won’t move, maybe we will, but maybe I’ll be able to handle the pressure of either possibility better than I thought I could.
Silly and cliché sayings have been my inner mantras while I brace myself.
I have decided that I need to let go, sometimes the bracing is worse than the actual impact.
I am learning to love and appreciate where I’ve been as well as where I am.
It’s a hard lesson. I made this as a reminder, a huge twenty by thirty reminder to greet me every morning.
|A print I made reminding me to love where we've been, but more importantly love where we are.|