A few nights ago I was sitting on the front porch of my childhood home watching the lightning bugs start to wake up, sipping bourbon and generally soaking in a sense of well being from the familiarity of a southern summer night. And I thought, why do I keep leaving? I love it here. 

These last couple of weeks have been chock full of these moments. I've spent time with real deal friends who love my stories, think that I'm hilarious and tell me that my butt is looking great these days. This is essentially this holy trinity of things I need to hear. What more could you want from a tribe of soul kin?

But yet I insist on leaving the shire over and over because I love the struggle. Even if these amazing people and this great town are ultimately the gems I come back to, I want to find the proverbial hard way home. And not because I'm a glutton for punishment. It's something else. Wanderlust? Yes. But even different from that.

Researcher and sociologist Brene Brown says that we are hard wired for struggle. I'm out here on a limb without any scientific backing, but I'm thinking maybe beyond being hard wired for it, we desire it. It's what gives our story dimensions. We would all rather read about rags to riches than a silver platter fairytale. 

This is all old news to many of you. This train of thought isn't original. But sitting with all of this looped me back around to the fact that struggle has a different meaning to everyone. Sometimes I have a general lack of compassion for certain people because I feel like they habitually make mountains out of molehills. But then I thought, what if those molehills ARE mountains for them? Struggle is a perspective issue and if you're an ant, that molehill looks damn near Everest sized. So, kindness. Always. Just in case. And if we take it upon ourselves to shed what we feel is perspective giving light to others, do it gently. No one NEEDS brutal honesty. They just need honesty. 

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