I celebrated, not with my eating disorder, but with bagels and conversation with the incomparable Lena, who made me homemade ginger ale because her response to existential agitas is to just pour the care onto everyone around her.
I walked home and remember that New York in September is amazing and beautiful and ridiculously alive, like teenagers and puppies.
I am going back tonight, trying to love my patients and mainlining lousy coffee and Eckhart Tolle and breathing and breathing and breathing because this is what survival looks like.
And then tomorrow I do this:
And Sunday, this:
Because why. not.