I did it again. I broke down, sobbing, sorry for myself.

I thought about how I’d wasted the last 10 years of my life, trying so hard to get somewhere, but only falling backwards. The current of life was strong, too strong for me. I wept for the times the current took me and washed me up, coughing, on some shore miles away from where I wanted to be. Every job interview I’d failed, every overdrawn check, every accident that set me back, it all came to me in a series of chain reaction memories, washing over me in waves of salty tears.

I tried to think about the milestones I’d passed, the things I had done to earn the praise my husband tiredly bestowed upon me as he drifted off to sleep. I’d married, graduated college, had kids. But I was a lousy cook, terrible housewife, klutzy, and a selfish mother, desiring time away from the kids who demanded so much of my attention.

Then, I realized I hadn’t changed much, inside. I stopped crying. I may not have experienced extreme highs and lows, but was that so bad?