I’m growing a tolerance.
I’m growing a tolerance for uncertainty instead of trying to overthink my way to answers and grasp onto the closest means of control.
I’m growing a tolerance for sitting with my emotions instead of ignoring them, pushing them down, or busying them away.
I’m growing a tolerance for recognizing my limitations instead of overriding them, acting like they don’t exist, or pushing myself past them in the name of productivity and worthiness.
I’m growing a tolerance for rest instead of giving into the inner taskmaster who calls me lazy, the inner clock that tells me I’m running out of time, or the inner critic who says I haven’t done enough to rest without shame.
I’m growing a tolerance for looking at my age as I log all the things I’ve done so far, all I’ve yet to do, and the slipping years I have left to do anything.
I’m growing a tolerance for feeling overwhelmed instead of reaching for my phone to scroll, running from the task, or filling up my brain with noise so loud I don’t have to face what’s scaring me.
I’m growing a tolerance for picking up a book I already have instead of starting a new one.
I’m growing a tolerance for breathing deeply instead of holding my breath, breathing shallowly, and wondering why I’m always lightheaded.
I’m growing a tolerance for putting lotion on my legs and arms every night instead of neglecting my little limbs.
I’m growing a tolerance for the fluctuations of life, understanding they are an inevitable part of it instead of blaming myself all the way down the downslope of every new dip.
I’m growing a tolerance for the parts of myself I’ve been historically frustrated with. In the process, I’m learning to accept and move gently toward them—these parts I once could not stand. I’m finding a well of self-compassion at their core when I stay with them long enough to discover it.