Page 36 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Every single time.
I pushed to my feet, hip throbbing, and drew in a deep breath through my nose, held it, and let it out slowly like I’d teach in class.
Inhale.You’re here, and you’re going to be okay.
Exhale.You’re still standing, and that’s all that matters right now.
With my hip protesting each step, I thanked the universe I practiced yoga daily. Without it, I’d be moving like a ninety-year-old woman right now.
The coffee machine was my first stop, because if the universe was going to keep testing me, I’d need caffeine to back me up.
I popped in a pod and hit the brew button for the most ounces. The familiar gurgle and hiss was weirdly comforting, and when the bitter, grounding smell hit a second later, my brain thanked me.
While it finished brewing, I shuffled to the bathroom and studied myself in the mirror. Bedhead. Smudged mascara remnants from last night. Purple-dipped hair that had somehow become my trademark in Ruby River, even though I’d sworn I wasn’t the kind of person who had a “signature look.”
“You’re doing your best,” I whispered, but the woman in the mirror looked unconvinced.
I showered quickly, but lingered under the hot water long enough to let it seep into my sore hip and ease the tension between my shoulder blades. Grief lived in muscles. People didn’t talk about that part. How it made your body clench like it was bracing for impact even on an ordinary day.
I toweled off and pulled on comfy clothes—leggings and a soft oversized sweater that Aunt Jem had loved and had let me borrow. It was a little big, faded, and it smelled faintly like her clean laundry and the lavender oil she dabbed on her wrists.
Wearing it was the closest thing to a hug from her.
I took my coffee to the small kitchen table and sat down with my journal. The table had tiny scratches along the edge from years of use and my restless teenage tapping. When I was younger, I used to sit here while she made tea and told me there was nothing wrong with being sensitive. It meant I noticed things other people missed.
My parents used to call that sensitivity dramatic. Too much.
With a heavy sigh, I opened my journal.
Every morning, I focused on intention—writing as though my best life had already happened. It wasn’t magic. It was direction. A compass. A way to remind the universe I was here and excited for my future. It was a way to remind myself I wasn’t stuck, even when everything around me shifted like quicksand.
I wrote the date at the top and began:
I am so overwhelmed with gratitude.
My pen hesitated.
Overwhelmed was … ambitious. But that was the point. It was to help call into existence all that I wanted. To allow me to focus on the daily things to make that happen.
I wake each day with purpose and intention.
Even if that purpose was simply getting up, making coffee, and refusing to drown in sorrow.
Sacred Serenity has grown so much I hired more help. I can easily pay my rent for the building, buy inventory and supplies for my classes, and I can finally breathe.
The wordbreathecame out harder than the rest, the ink bolder where I pressed firmly down on the paper.
The people of Ruby River have fully accepted me and treat me as though I’ve been a lifetime resident all along.
My chest tightened as I wrote those words. It was ridiculous that acceptance still mattered so much, that part of me still felt like an outsider who needed permission to exist here.
I’m energized each day and am able to offer energy healing sessions on a regular basis and have a full class for my Reiki I certification. In addition to everything we offer, I’ve hired another staff member to read cards at the shop and we’re working really well together.
I could practically see it: the bustling shop, laughter, full classes, Cheryl and I moved along like a well-oiled machine.
The animal yoga classes Marc and I ran at the shelter were so successful that we helped many of the animals get adopted, and my personal yoga classes have been booked solid since. I’ve even been asked for private 1:1 sessions.
My hand stilled.
