More to life.

I’m not an athlete, but I’m one of the best runners I know. I break sound barriers and break records unknown to those around me. I’m good at putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again. I can look far ahead; decide where to run to next. I can look over my shoulder to check where I’ve been. I fall and I bounce back up. I get hurt and deal with the pain. I run, unafraid of what I am running to or away from. Truthfully though, I do not like running.

Figuratively or literally. I am best at figuratively running—it’s an art I’ve honed to a tee. My life has been in fast forward for a long time, but more so in the past three years. Always out to prove myself and show that I am worth something beyond my layers of fat. Almost as if every extra pound meant I needed to prove myself in another way, it’s gotten old.

What is there to prove? And moreover, why am I still trying so dang hard? Some people are born to overachieve, but not me. I designed myself that way to compensate for not physically being good enough. I didn’t do it on purpose, but that’s how I feel now. I do not want to be perfect and I certainly don’t want to be in constant search of someone else’s approval.

This is my life and it’s time to do what I want. Finally.