A Life of Writing

I shouldn't be doing this. There is a huge stack of files sitting next to me, and I should be thumbing through them instead of purging my mind of its many random observations. I can't focus on codes at a time like this, so in this moment I'm choosing to write.

I realized yesterday just how in sync my life is with those grandiose plans I made for myself. I've been given remarkable opportunities to serve, and I relish the ways my mind has expanded to see the need around me, equal to or even greater than the needs addressed by all those NPOs and "Give-a-year" foundations. I've found diversity in a place I originally thought was full of white privilege. I help students realize their potential, and in doing so, I've realized my own. Each day I find something or someone new to love, from crimson burning bushes to the lopsided crown of a birthday boy. I inhale the day with a deeper awareness of my own humanity, of the pulse in my chest and the incessant string of thoughts in my mind. Like a sponge, I absorb the world and secrete my own flavour of Emily-ness.

This. My writing. This is why it all makes sense.