Why does time always seem to flow at breakneck speed during the pleasant parts of our lives, but as soon as we're in a state of distress the stream feels endless?
It's been six months. Six months since I've been divorced, and the sense of finality I expected there to be is still absent. I've been part of a pair for eleven years—no, more than eleven years.
I would be hopelessly in denial if I said that the adjustment – living in a new city, being surrounded by new people, re-establishing my life as an individual – has been easy.
Some days, (as ridiculous as this may sound) it feels like I'm walking around with one Louboutin on. It's uncomfortable and awkward, foreign and disorienting.
I suppose its fine to not be completely okay, right?
In defiance of the qualms I had about transitioning
, I consider moving to L.A one of the best decisions I've made in an expansive amount of time.
Being able to essentially start over has been restorative, even though it entailed the constant hovering of Nae and Sam.
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