I realised this week i’d been in this house 4 years.
When I moved in I was size 20, engaged, 30 years old, a new driver, a keen reader with no other hobbies. I went on steam trains and to the pub because my fiance wanted to and never fought to do the things that I wanted. I didn’t really know what I wanted. I’m not sure I knew who I was. Oh and I kept rats and had never been to a book event.
4 years on i’m size 14, divorced, 34 years old, a keen reader (oh look some things don’t change), a kickboxer, a blogger, an apocalypse girl, I deliver alt.fiction, I go to three or four events a year. I am not interested in trains, I go to pubs rarely, for food and company. I have a tattoo. I know who I am, I know what I want, I am not the girl I was 4 years ago. I am stronger, more capable, more sure.
Oddly, I am perhaps the girl I was as a child, before I hit my teens, or I am at least more who she thought she was going to be.
I am happier with my life than I have ever been. I am happier with the people in it too.