The tortoise simply isn’t born with the same leg-up as the hare. Where the hare can easily leap 5 feet in one stride, the tortoise struggles with all it has to make it 5 inches.

Each branch, each rock, each ditch that gets in the way, the tortoise painstakingly makes its way around, so careful not to trip or fall or lose it’s place. The course they’ve set up has a lot of those obstacles— challenges the participants must overcome to advance, a fair playing field, the game makers reassure.

But the hare is designed to hop over the ditch, the rock, the branch with ease. The hare is built for this kind of course, with the strong legs and fast heart inherited from his mom and his dad and all of the hares before him. It’s a gift he was bestowed from birth, no price tag attached.

Herein lies the problem. It’s true that course is the same, for the tortoise and the hare. But the course is designed for the hare’s strong legs, and fast heart, and gifts he did not have to fight for. The tortoise can struggle and strive and swerve with all its might, and sometimes it might get past that finish line first, but the hare has always had the advantage. No matter how many times he stops and meanders from the path to the finish line, no matter the detours and the dallying, the hare will always have the advantage. It’s a fact built into the bones of the race course.

Another race begins. The tortoise lifts its legs like lead, meeting each roadblock head on, while the hare gets distracted by an insect buzzing some meters behind. And yet still, as it often goes, the hare wins. The tortoise sweats and struggles and struggles some more, and the hare, once it tires of its distraction, hops swiftly past it on its long-inherited legs.

It’s a race that’s been rigged from the start, at the end of the day.

Her name is Rose. She’s quite the romantic, and wears her heart on her sleeve. It shows in different ways, in a rainbow of different colors, but most often, when she’s feeling that itch of desire seeping into her roots and making her feel fit to bloom, when she can’t contain the love that swirls in her chest, she’s red and bold and bursting with passion. But she’s not one for everyday expressions of affection— her vulnerability is rare and it’s calculated, but it shows up when it’s important, when words just aren’t enough.

Her spirit ebbs and she flows when she’s grounded, she has her downs but she always picks herself back up when she has the right support, when she can still hold on tight to her roots. It’s when she’s ripped away that she becomes unmoored, when she struggles to stay blooming with only the barest dregs of energy life offers.

She’s soft at her core, a heart that goes deep and explodes out as she’s grows, but she’s got sharp edges too. Bumps and bruises that go as deep as her roots, growing pains that sprout without her permission and can hurt inside and out. Things in her past and present that can sting without warning and push people away, ugly parts of her that she can’t hide but are fused deep in her bones and that without she would wither, parts that are messy but still make her who she is.

And still she keeps growing. And still she blooms. And still she loves and spreads love as far as her heart can reach.

Even when she withers, when her spirit drains and she can’t stand on her own, still she hangs on. Even when her colors start to fade and her foundation crumbles, her heart perseveres.

And she still has her flaws, and still she might have more room to grow, and still she might wilt with the strain of life, but still she is beautiful.

I’m ready to leave you behind.

That’s a lie. I’m not ready. I won’t ever be ready unless I force myself. And it’s less of a wanting to leave than a need.

And I love you but I hate you. I hate you so much and I hate that I love you and I hate that I need you and I hate that I really need to learn how to not need you.

You’re the only thing that keeps my mind quiet, that silences the racing thoughts and numbs the shitty feelings and keeps that ever present dread at bay. And yet you always leave me feeling worse the next day.

I need you to help me fall asleep, I can’t turn off my thoughts if you’re not there to turn them off for me. I hate being awake but you blur the lines enough to make it bearable.

I can’t go a day without you by my side. I shake and I shiver if I don’t have you near, I try to leave you behind and I end up rushing to find you before you close me out.

I keep you hidden and I don’t, I get drunk on you in order to face this and that and increasingly everything. I make sure no one knows when I have you tucked away in my room, like a secret I’m not willing to give up but I know isn’t healthy in the slightest. That I know if anyone knew of, they’d tell me to get away, to leave you behind, to make better choices.

But it’s so hard. I know the long term damage you’re doing to my mind, to my relationships, to my work, to my life. Even when you’re not there, everything seems cloudier than it used to. Thoughts slip and slide and memories seem to fade. I can’t quite grasp things the way I used to. I interact with people, but I seldom remember what I said, what others said, what really happened in those interactions because you’re always there. I know it’s not healthy. I know it’s destructive. I know I need to let you go, but I am addicted.

The bartender pours me another drink. I take a sip, feel the shame seeping into my bones. I have another. I go home, racing thoughts blissfully dulled, like they’re dragging through sludge. I pour myself another, as soon as I feel that buzz start to fade. I hate it, I love it, I hate it so much. I vow that this is the last.

But it’s not the first time I’ve made this promise to myself, and if I’m honest it probably won’t be the last. One day, I hope it will stick. I hope I’ll be able to leave you behind, to be able to function without the crutch you provide. And when that happens, when I can find the strength to let you go, well.

Good fucking riddance.

The thing they don’t often tell you about seeing into the future is that it doesn’t typically revolve around your own. It’s brushing up against someone with their bag slung high on their shoulder and their steps shuffled fast and knowing that they’re going to miss their train, and the important meeting that follows, and feeling a simultaneous rush of sympathy and futility. It’s feeling the vibrations of the earth beneath your feet and knowing that an earthquake is about to hit some 1000 miles away before the news ever does and being powerless to stop it. It’s seeing how everyone around you is about to advance, or regress, or stay stagnant in their jobs or their relationships or their lives. It’s a a whole lot of depressing fucking nothing, at the end of the day.

And then, it’s something. It’s brushing against the arm of a stranger on the train as they make their way to depart to a location you don’t know, and feeling the shift. It’s the sudden image of a hand in yours, of her lips right there, as she’s holding you close. It’s the feeling of something constant when everything else is shifting so fast you can barely keep your footing. It’s the knowledge of a future you never dreamed would be possible for you.

It’s hope. And she’s stepping off the train with only the subtlest glance back, but you know with all that’s in you that you’ll see her again. You can see the future before you in startling color. And it’s good. And it’s happy. And it’s there. And that’s the most surprising part of it all.

It’s hard to write about finding your way when you haven’t found your way yet. But I guess it’s like… when you’re in the grocery store, any you’re trying to be healthier, or make better choices, and go a little further then your comfortable generic meat-cheese-eggs-bread haul. So you’re loading up your basket with foods you have tried, and you like but you’re worried you might not be able to finish all on you’re own, but you want to try again anyway. Or things you haven’t tried yet, but you want to or know you should because they’ll be good for you, or you think they’ll be good for you, so you pile them on even though you know you’re risking them rotting in the back of your fridge two weeks from now.

And don’t get me started on the baskets— the ones you swear you don’t need, utterly convinced that you’re just coming in for a handful of things, that you don’t need one, only to be juggling an armful of groceries you most certainly don’t have the armful-capacity to handle and struggling to keep that stray tomato from tumbling to the ground, too stubborn to go back and get a cart and too stubborn— too embarrassed— to ask for help.

But at least you’re trying. And maybe that spaghetti made out of squash you bought because you’re pretty sure you’re some level of gluten intolerant will taste gross no matter how much different sauces or seasonings you layer on it, and maybe the rest will sit in the back of your fridge until it gets slimy and gross and forgotten. But you’re trying. You’re finding out what works, and what doesn’t. You’re making the effort, despite everything. Sometimes, maybe many times, you’ll regress back to frozen meals and ramen and eggs and bread and the most basic of things, but you still make you’re way to the store, and you still buy that stupid squash or that new fish meal or that fresh salad mix. And you might find that you like it, and you might find that you don’t, but you’re trying, and you’re muddling along, and you’re learning more about your tastes and your desires and your plans for your next grocery shop every day. So it’s like a whole journey, by the time you’ve checked out at Whole Foods and decided to forego the box of wine.

And after all that, I’m pretty sure that’s a simile, not a metaphor.