In the 20-plus years since I stopped attending church, I’ve considered Easter weekend as a time to reflect upon resurrection and transformation. What parts of me need to die and be reborn? is a question I ask myself. This year I’m more preoccupied with this concept. Perhaps that has something to do with being in the throes of a midlife crisis, feeling as if I have limited time to meet any potential I may still possess.
I used the last three years of pandemic-induced isolation to work on personal transformation. In 2020, I began work on improving my physical health, releasing over 20 pounds. In 2021, I revised my novel. In 2022, I grew out my grey hair. But now, as we’ve entered the fourth year, my motivation and drive has dwindled. My depressive episodes in the last half of 2022 affected my eating habits to the point that I gained back nearly all the weight I released. The novel revision was only part of the journey to publication: if I want the novel published as an actual, physical book, either I have to take the traditional route, which takes time, persistence and patience, or I have to find the resources to get the book printed. Not having to spend time or money coloring my hair is nice, and yet the ageism I’ve experienced that’s been explicitly tied to my hair color1 is extremely unsettling. I’m at the point where I feel in need of another transformation, and some of it will have to come in the form of miracles.
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