As I sit writing this, yes, it is after midnight, because I am very much That Girl that does her best writing (and her most overthinking) after midnight. And yes, I am in Vancouver. I wanted to update this sooner, and have been trying to for over a week now. I wanted to have accomplished more, to have more to tell you when I wrote this. I will lead with one thing: I did not get the Christian ministry job I so desperately wished for.

I also still do not have a place to rent for November. I am still sleeping on my aunt’s couch. I have two part time jobs now, but one is not giving me as many hours as I hoped for, and the other is offering inconvenient hours. That’s how life is, but it doesn’t make it less frustrating. I’m trying to find a place to rent that’s cat friendly, and I miss Baby, my little black cat, more desperately than I’ve ever missed any other animal. I hope my parents and little brother are giving her the cuddles she deserves, but I highly doubt it. She deserves the most cuddles. All the cuddles in the world.

Despite having many friends who live near here or are close enough to here and visit frequently, I’ve only been able to meet up with a few friends. I’ve spent significant time with my aunt, cousin, and their friends and family, some other relatives of mine, some more distant than others. They’re all wonderful people, and their company warms my heart and shapes my days, but they make me miss my other friends even more.

Thanksgiving, World Mental Health Day, and National Coming Out Day were the last three days. I tried to use any of these days as an excuse to make any sort of post, to muster up any sort of impressive words for you beautifuls who are reading this, to give the thanks and encouragement and honesty that this blog, this world, deserves from me.

To put it shortly, I’m here, I’m queer, I’m thankful. I’m still my own worst critic, and I’m still not complete or impressive or accomplishing as much as I feel like I should be, and my depression and anxiety are still my absolute worst enemies. They’re always quick to remind me that, despite the words of the many wonderful people telling me otherwise, I’m not doing enough, I haven’t spent enough time job or house searching, that because I don’t have a full time “real” job or a place to live yet, I am failing miserably.

This is nonsense, of course. I have accomplished a lot in a very short period of time. I am genuinely pursuing the things I love as best I can (albeit through part time customer service jobs), seeing some of the people that I love, making connections (both intimate emotional ones and professional business ones), drinking wine, and praying and loving and being every day. I am young and vibrant and starting out new. I am allowed to feel and make mistakes and hug as many people as who will take hugs from me. I am allowed to miss my cat and worry because I can’t tell her that I miss her like I can with my friends, because she’s a cat, so what if she doesn’t know?

I am allowed to worry and cry and not feel like I have done enough. I am allowed to be angry at my parents and my depression for the things, the peace of mind, they took from me. But I am also allowed to get up and forgive myself and move forward again. I’m working on it. My feelings are as real and important as anyone else’s. My accomplishments are as impressive as I would think they were for anyone else. The problem is, my brain is not always the best at believing this is true. It never has been.

I have nothing impressive to give you. I have only my own honestly, tiredness, frustration, and persistence. I wish things were going more impressively or miraculously or consistently, but they aren’t. Although thankful for the opportunities, experiences, and joy I’ve felt since I arrived here a few weeks ago, I remain consistently worried, anxious, and exhausted. For now, that is enough.

I’m working on a poem about my first few weeks here. I don’t know if I’ll get around to finishing it, but the idea and beginnings of a poem is still something.

The idea and beginnings of a new life, here, in Vancouver, are still something. They are still enough. They have to be.

Nevertheless, she persisted,


One response to “Enough”

  1. Reading your words takes me back to being in my twenties. A wise woman once told me, “never call it YOUR depression. The depression is not YOU. It’s a part of your experience, but it does not belong to you.” That was during the beginnings of my own awakening from the darkness that pulled me down every. Single. Day. I’m not sure what your stance is on medication, but I’m offering perspective. It, along with counselling and much, much prayer, changed my life. God heard me; He kept giving me the tools; I kept telling him “no, I’ve got this.” But I didn’t.
    I also learned how to forgive not just myself, but my parents for not being who I needed them to be; for ripping away what could have been a beautiful childhood. God gave me the strength and the will to get to that place, and it’s brought me tremendous peace. Mind you, this all happened in my late twenties and early thirties. I’m still journeying.
    Anyways, that’s my experience and perspective: offered. Take what works for you and leave the rest. Prayers that your journey continues to be blessed. Our Lord knows what you need!


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