Everything feels impossible lately.

I’ve decided to find comfort in that. If everything is a struggle, then nothing is harder than anything else. The work, the effort, the propulsion needed for anything I hope to do requires the same amount of energy.

A spacecraft charging out of the grasp of Earth’s atmosphere. Once I’m up there, I can do anything I want. No matter what follows, the force needed to escape gravity’s pull is the same.

Getting up in the morning is just as hard as going running. Just as hard as showering, getting dress, feeding myself. Just as hard as writing, as leaving the house, as making conversation. Just as hard as stay sober, as staying clean. Just as hard as admitting I’m struggling. Just as hard as sobbing into the chest of my husband while we curl up on the couch. Just as hard as sitting across the room from my therapist and saying, “I don’t know how to explain it. I just don’t know if I can do this.” It all takes the same initial thrust. It all requires the same strength in the beginning.

There is some beauty in that, something soft and comforting. None of this is easy and I have no reason to believe that it should be. No evidence that most people have to put in any less effort than I do. But it can all only be so hard. The tipping point remains in the same place, even when it gets harder to reach.