Turns out? At 53, I can still fuck up my life. In fact, it wasn’t difficult to do—not even a little. One choice, one stupid choice, and my life shifted entirely. And I can’t blame anyone at all but myself, which sucks balls.

Taking the time to assess things while forgiving myself concurrently ain’t exactly easy. I mean, hey, I fucked up—I just did, no denying. And the consequential pie to the face was well deserved. Still, I didn’t hurt anyone beyond yours truly, and I am grateful to have the support of my dearest as I pick myself up, brush off, and get back at it. After all, as it’s been said, it’s the getting back up that matters more than the falling down. And I’m embracing that colloquialism as I have many times before in this crazy human existence of doing and being, being and doing.

And so I’m back at it. Getting on with life, taking on new adventures, and loving me through it all. Because, if anything at all, I know Kate, and for years I’ve whipped myself for whatever poor choice or wrong thing I’ve said or done in my life—things I absolutely cannot change or undo. And I ain’t doing it this time.

Recognizing that fact doesn’t absolve me of my fuck ups, although to some it may seem incongruent with my modest admissions. Still, I’ve done too much hating, too much punching myself in the face, too much shitty self-talk to allow it. I’m human, I’m fallible, and I can be really stupid sometimes.

So, here I go again. And with both humility about my past and determination for my future, I will be just fucking fine. And eventually? Even better than that.