It was a hot, lazy day, and I’d done precisely nothing that counted as adulting: lounged around drinking coffee, spent the rest of the morning writing things for Salty Running, then ran for 90 minutes. I returned home drenched in sweat, thinking about how much I wanted to drink something sweet. That pointless, nervous little voice inside me insisted I was a complete waste of space who should feel deeply ashamed of her total enjoyment of this day and didn’t even deserve to drink water, let alone anything satisfying. If I wasn’t going to do anything to help people in need, like the Syrian refugees quartered in the local government building half a mile away, then surely I could at least, like, vacuum?
One train of thought led to another, and soon enough I came to realize (yet again) the magnitude of privilege I have in my life to even be having this discussion with myself. Now I was feeling guilty about feeling guilty. It was clear even to me that something had to change. Read more >>