It’s difficult sometimes. Caring. If I didn’t care, I’d sleep like a baby. I’d be able to dream sweet dreams and finish a book every week. If I didn’t care, I’d be free to explore the world. I’d be free to relax and enjoy life’s little pleasures. I’d be at the beach. I’d buy new clothes and wear them at fancy restaurants.
If I didn’t care.
Instead, I find myself constantly worrying if I’m doing enough. My nights are plagued with doubts and fears. Am I doing the right things? Am I going to be able to help? My books are visited intermittently, whenever a minute or two can be spared. And even then I am distracted, or inspired, and have to drop it.
Instead, I travel halfway across the world to stay put. My explorations are of the imagination instead of the landscape. I think of the beach as I take sandy steps to school. Waves of worry crash around me, their thunder deafening. I sit here, 100 kilometers from purchases and sigh-inducing meals.
Instead, I buy sweets for Valentine’s Day, and don’t eat a single one. My shopping cart overflows with pens and tape and art supplies, stickers, crafts and glue.
Instead, I see all of the positive changes. I see learning and friendship. I learn about who they are and who I am.
Instead, I am living the true dream. I am changing, growing. I am happy because I care.
Caring is the most stressful, frustrating, hair-pulling, and rewarding emotion.
And I rock it like a neon fanny pack!