Feeling the end

[Trigger warning: end of life.]

The other persistent feeling that I’ve been having for a little over a year now (I can remember telling my swimmer/artist friend in California about it in September 2023) is of having reached my end, i.e. of having nothing left to do here, in this life, and it being time for me to go. 

I’m not feeling depressed or desperate. I just feel I’ve done, or at least tried, what I had to, what I was put on earth to do or try, and now time is up. Like the old wise ferryman Vasudeva in Hesse’s Siddhartha, who eventually walks off into the woods when it’s finally time for him to go, when he knows it’s time for him to go. I wish I could also just walk off into the woods… 

Papa’ e’ morto

[Trigger warnings: death of parent; losses; grief.]

The other persistent feeling of the past few weeks has been a stronger wave of grief due to a new, deeper realization of my father’s death. 

He died over a year ago and yet I don’t think I ever really grieved him. Apart from the first couple days right after his death, I hardly thought about it, I didn’t really realize that he’s gone forever. That I’ll never see him again, never talk to him again. That he’ll never know me — the real me — and I’ll never truly know him, either. 

I think that when he died last summer, at first the pain was too intense to bear and I was in shock; then, that grief was pushed aside and covered up by the grief around the painful separation from — and subsequent, permanent loss of — my European (gender)queer ex-lover. And then life — the need to survive, to get practical things done, etc. — took over. 

Now, the ending of not only a job but a whole career direction for me along with a more definitive move to a new, more stable house/living situation has allowed that old grief to resurface and actually be given some space. And it catches me in the most unforeseen moments — the sadness, the emptiness, the sense of loss, sometimes still the incredulity. And the tears — so many tears… 

My gender is a rainbow

In the past several weeks I’ve been feeling three sensations persistently. 

One of them — the bright, or light, one — is a liberating and profound sense of my gender being a rainbow, or maybe a kaleidoscope. 

I wouldn’t call it “fluid”, as in genderfluid, because to me it doesn’t feel like it’s shifting or flowing but rather more like a rainbow or kaleidoscope in that my gender contains all colors, all facets at once: masculine, feminine, boy, girl, everything that is in between but also beyond, neither masculine nor feminine, nonbinary — genderexpansive, genderneutral. 

It bothers me tremendously when people still refer to me as “she/her” or “m’am” sometimes — whereas “he/him” or “sir” hardly bother me. 

I like my more-masculine-leaning body but I also love that it’s really half and half or in between: masculine at a first glance but not wholly, if one looks closer. 

I love that my body technically is nonbinary, that my body itself contains and can express/show both the masculine and the feminine and also the neutral in its being a sort of “linear body”. To me my body looks mostly neutral and asexual in its lack of “external appendages” and I love it this way because somehow it represents me. And then I can bend this neutrality playing with presentation, often leaning more into the masculine but also rediscovering the joy and pleasure of mixing in some feminine. 

I don’t know exactly what has been bringing up, or bringing back, this sense of genderneutrality to me but I feel that at least part of it is due to three relatively recents factors or events that have brought it to my awareness more clearly now: being part of the gay men’s chorus; the brief (& awkward) interaction with the guy I like(d) at the gym; the half-marathon race I did & won in the nonbinary category a couple weeks ago. These situations have highlighted the non-binary & gender-neutral aspects of my nature to myself and I’ve enjoyed it. 

I like my gender kaleidoscope — and maybe I like it now because to the external world I look masculine…  

Precious weekend

I can use many words to describe this weekend retreat with the gay men’s chorus: fun, playful, interesting, tiring, long, intense, healing, liberating, powerful, wonderful. And they’d all be appropriate. But if I had to pick just one word to describe it, I would choose precious. 

This weekend retreat with the gay men’s chorus to me was precious.

There were a couple of disappointing or frustrating or simply awkward moments — e.g. when I was left to finish up dinner by myself when the other people at my table, including my Big Sibling, just got up and left when they were done eating, instead of waiting a few more minutes for me to finish, too; or the conversation with explicit details about anal sex at lunch yesterday that was finally interrupted by one of the guys (I was the only AFAB/non-cis-male at the table) saying that it probably wasn’t a “meal-appropriate conversation”. This guy’s intervention at lunch and the pep talk on the phone with my artist/swimmer friend back in California on Saturday night when I was disappointed & hurt about dinner really helped “save the moment” for me. 

But those were the only two instances where I felt uncomfortable. The rest of the weekend felt precious to me, filled with moments and experiences that for me shone like jewels and I will always treasure. 

Probably the most precious, and definitely the most intimate, of these treasures was given to me yesterday morning when a choir member who had until that moment been a total stranger held me — held me physically — in my grief. 

Yesterday morning we started by working on “Joy”, which is one of my three favorite songs in our holiday concert. It’s a very moving song about the joy that is found in love and in being able to live as one’s true self; a song about the protagonists of our holiday concert story finding joy again in being loved, in loving, and being finally able to live as their true self. I find the melody of this song and its canon structure extremely beautiful and stirring. On top of that, the lyrics also resonate with me in a very profound and intense way. I get goosebumps from it every time we sing it all together. Yesterday morning, though, I could also feel it stirring something deep and physical in my chest, in my heart. After the more technical aspects of the study, the director focused on the emotional meaning of the song: “This line says, ‘I am loved’: by whom? by whom are you loved? Don’t answer me — think about it while you’re singing it”; “And here, ‘now at last I can live’: living as our true selves… the meaning this has for us in the LGBTQIA+ community”… By this point, the tears that were welling up in my eyes started slowly rolling down my cheeks (or into my N-95 mask) and it was all I could do to keep going and sing the rest of the song to the end. Once we were done with it and it was clear we were going to move on to a different song, I nipped out of the room where we were practicing, removed my face-mask to blow my nose as I walked past the first set of couches where two or three other chorus members were sitting, and slumped into the first armchair I found with nobody nearby. I sat and breathed, thinking that just a couple minutes and deep breaths would soothe me and the storm would be over. But no, the storm had only just started, and after a couple deep breaths the dam broke: tears were gushing from my eyes and before I knew it, I was sobbing. I wanted to stop, I didn’t want to be heard, I wanted to take myself outside at least, but I couldn’t, it was too overwhelming: I was like a tiny wooden raft in a powerful ocean storm and all I could do was try to stay afloat waiting for it to pass. But suddenly, I wasn’t alone: I felt an arm around me, their bare skin on mine (I could even feel the little soft hairs on the arm), gentle yet firm. They were holding me, crouching next to my armchair and literally holding me. My face buried in my hands, I had no idea who it was, but they were there with me, holding me gently and firmly, those arms in silence telling me, “I am here with you. You are not alone”. They hold me for the rest of my cry out, patting my head a couple times when my sobs intensified. And once I stopped crying, they didn’t pull away immediately, so I was able to put my right hand on their left forearm wrapped around my left arm/shoulder: I kept my hand there for a few moments, a silent way to say “Thank you” and “Stay a moment longer” but also “This hug is totally OK” (I am one of those people who wants & needs to be hugged, without being asked, when I’m crying). 

Words are simply insufficient, inadequate, to express the power, the importance, the depth, the intimacy of that moment. 

There were many other wonderful moments for me during this weekend’s retreat, moments that were fun, playful, liberating, empowering, healing. Maybe I simply, finally, found myself: found my “old self” by being able to be more outgoing, as I usually am in other groups/environments; found my “new self” as a “queer person who sings” (as opposed to the “self” I usually am as a (queer) scientist and athlete). 

I had interactions and conversations with people during practice and breaks, initiating the connection myself sometimes but also enjoying the fact that I was actually being seen and/or included more than during the past rehearsals. And in a couple of interactions, when I shared about how practicing the song “Joy” had made me cry so much, I got responses (from cis-men) like “Yes, something similar happened to me yesterday, I cried so much but if felt so good — singing together is so healing”.

In conversations about our past singing experiences (many of the people/guys in the chorus sang in choir at school), I told them that I started as an adult but also added, explicitly, “I am trans so I used to have a different voice so this is a new experience for me to sing with my new voice”, and I got responses along the lines of “That’s wonderful! How does it feel?” 

I finally not only made peace, truly and profoundly, with my voice but actually felt something shift within me and came to see, to hear, to feel my “trans voice” as a super-power. Saturday morning, the director was giving us baritones & basses advice on how to hit some very high (for low voices) notes in a couple of the songs and I suddenly realized that I can hit those high notes so much more easily than most of them, while still also hitting the low notes like them, “just” by tapping into my own physical resources as a trans AFAB person. All of a sudden, something shifted for me, as if a switch had been flipped in my brain: something that until now had been felt like a flaw to me, finally became a super-power; and as I shared that feeling with a couple of the men I know/trust more, their reply was, “Yes, you really do have a super-power, and that’s wonderful, so tap into it!” 

I also felt able/safe/confident/comfortable enough to wear a skirt to the social events on Saturday night! My favorite flimsy silk mini-skirt over leggins, with a cool tank-top and little jacket that both have a gay-boy/gender-neutral vibe, and my bright blue gay-boy tennis shoes. It felt so liberating! And so fun! (And I got so many compliments!) Somehow, being surrounded by so many cis-men wearing flamboyant, playful, colorful, and even feminine clothes helped me feel comfortable to let go. Skirts are fun to wear, colorful outfits are fun and pretty, jewelry and makeup can be fun and pretty, too: there’s no intrinsic gender in any of this, unless/until we attach some gender to it. We can do so or not. I can wear a skirt because I want to express the girly part of me or I can wear a skirt just because it’s pretty and fun and I like the way it looks and feels. Either way, it’s wonderful and liberating and fun. (And I find it somewhat ironic that it’s the contact with a bunch of (queer) cis-men that is helping me reconnect to my own femininity more openly.)  

I cried this weekend and I had a couple moments of frustration or disappointment or loneliness. But I also laughed a lot. I connected: to myself more deeply, more expansively, as well as to others. And I felt the love and care: there was so much love and care, i.e. people just had (& overall showed) so much love and care for one another. 

During the “group building activity” on Saturday morning, one of the chorus members asked me, “You’re one of the newbies, right?”, and as I replied “Yes” he said, “Welcome to the family!” Not just “Welcome”, but “Welcome to the family”: for someone like me, rejected and estranged by my family of origin and living with the loneliness that almost inevitably comes with being “single” (& aro-ace), those words meant the world. 

Like all families, it’s not perfect — far from it: there are preferences and cliques and dislikes and squabbles and disagreements and differences. And they were present/evident this weekend, too. But they paled in comparison to the intensity and strength of the love and care. The preciousness of the love and care.

Grief and that unrelenting yearning

[Trigger warnings: loss, death of parent, grief.]

Ten days ago, the weekend I was staying with my closest climbing buddy and his partner, after my solo hike on Sunday I could feel this lump in my throat, this knot in my chest as I relaxed. Grief. Grief that needed to be honored and released. 

I put on the song “Inkpot Gods” by The Amazing Devil and the tears finally came: sobs. Sobs out loud and jumbled words in my mind related to a terribly painful yearning that will never be satisfied: the yearning for my father and for my European (gender)queer ex-lover, both tangled together.

A couple days ago, on Tuesday evening, with my body and mind relaxed after getting a massage from my closest nonbinary/transmasc friend who’s studying to become a massage therapist, as the song “Somewhere over the rainbow” by Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole came on, I unraveled and the lump in my throat melted into sobs again. This time the only words going through my head were, “I want my daddy”. As my friend put their hand on my chest, on my heart, and held space for me, I didn’t dare utter those words out loud, lest they be too much for my friend — maybe too much even for me. But those words were screaming in my head — that child was screaming in my head. 

Yesterday I went on a hike in the mountains with my oldest climbing buddy from Colorado: our first long drive together, our first time spending many hours together and doing something different from climbing (because of my wrist injury). And as we were driving up into the canyon my buddy shared some extremely personal and vulnerable experiences and emotions with me, including the fact that this week had been the third anniversary of his father’s death. That allowed me to also share that I had lost my dad last summer, just over a year ago. My friend held space for me and then asked me how I felt about it. And I shared with him some things I have hardly ever said to anyone explicitly (other than some things I’ve written here and/or mentioned to my runner & former-neighbor friend). 

Last night I went to sleep feeling a desperate need to be held. 

This morning I woke up with a similar yearning. 

At breakfast, I told my housemate that I’m struggling with an unexpected return of grief and as they replied kindly I felt the wave wash over me again, tears welling up in my eyes, the lump in my throat and knot in my chest loosening up a little, until the tears started streaming down my face, almost sobs. And again that voice in my head: “I want my dad. I lost my dad and will never have him back again”.

Goddammit. Grief bites us in the butt when we least expect it. And to have this wave of grief washing over me now is really tricky — this is a very delicate state of mind & heart for me to be in for this weekend’s retreat with the gay men’s chorus… it puts me in a very vulnerable state and that worries me.  

When the body says “No”

It’s Monday night, past 10 o’clock. I’m very tired from an exhausting weekend and the stress accumulation over weeks. I’ve done all “my homework”, i.e. all the things I know will help me to relax and eventually get a good night’s sleep: meditation before dinner; warm bath and enjoyable book after dinner; guided relaxation/meditation in bed. And yet, despite the tiredness and the relaxation exercises, I cannot fall asleep. 

Here it is: anger (“Hello anger, my old friend…”). 

My body is tense, restless — and it’s not the lingering post-race soreness that is bothering me. This is something else. Something deeper. Something I need to heed. 

I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position that will allow me to fall asleep — in vain. I try breathing exercises again — in vain. 

This anger wants to be heard, acknowledged, heeded. This anger wants promises. My body wants to be heard. 

So I turn on my bedside lamp and sit up in bed. A hand on my heart, I talk to my anger, talk to my body. There’s a strong, distinct, loud “No” coming up from somewhere within. 

“OK”, I say, “ I am angry. I am angry and I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to have my ablation & tube ligation next week! I’m not even having any fucking sex, so what the hell do I need to get my tubes tied for?!? I don’t want to spend the rest of this autumn convalescent! I don’t want to wait until the end of November to go climbing again! And I don’t want to force myself to squeeze a climbing session into this week, I cannot force my wrist to climb yet.” 

As I voiced my anger, as I listened to and acknowledged my body’s “No’s”, I could feel the tension slowly release, the ease slowly return, the tiredness free to wash over me. 

“Don’t worry, it’s OK, it’s ’No’, and tomorrow we’ll take take of it and tell them ’No’.” 

And I finally fell asleep. 

As much as I’d like to stop having my monthly bleeding, as much as I’d love to have the certainty of not running any risk at all of ever getting pregnant, there’s still a part of me that isn’t ready to have that double procedure done now, to put my body through that now — not after the injuries and surgery I’ve been putting up with since April, not with all the stress I still have. 

As eager as I am to go climbing this week (with my climbing buddy J. or with the guy from the gym, if the latter ever replies to me), my wrist isn’t ready for that, yet, and I don’t want to forfeit its recovery, possibly adding several more weeks of no-climbing. 

As much as I’d like to continue taking the memoir-writing course now, I’m not OK with doing it with an instructor who has explicitly said she will not ask people to give trigger warnings (topics like cancer, suicide, substance abuse are being addressed explicitly) and the rest of the participants are persons who don’t understand the use of trigger warnings (nor the use of pronouns). 

All of these other people, institutions or situations have rules, needs, and boundaries of their own, some of which might be reasonable and/or acceptable (some definitely are not). But I have my own, too. As I’ve been trying to force myself to adapt to these other people, institutions or situations, to their rules, needs, or boundaries, I have been disrespecting my own needs and boundaries: and that’s the main, deepest source of the anger I felt last night. 

Yes, I can rightly be angry with the medical/insurance system here in the U.S. that is making feel like I need to have my ablation ASAP to save money. 

Yes, I can reasonably be angry with the instructor and other people from the memoir-writing course for not building a really safe/comfortable environment for all. 

Yes, I can understandably be disappointed and frustrated with the inconsistent (& to me confusing) responses from the guy at the climbing gym. 

But at the end of the day, it’s up to me to say “No”: “No, your rules or needs or boundaries don’t work for me, so I will draw the line here, where my needs and boundaries stand firm.” 

Luckily, my body said “No” for me last night.

“Shake it off”

“

Regrets collect like old friends

Here to relive your darkest moments

I can see no way, I can see no way

And all of the ghouls come out to play

And every demon wants his pound of flesh

But I like to keep some things to myself

I like to keep my issues drawn

It’s always darkest before the dawn

And I’ve been a fool and I’ve been blind (I’ve been blind)

I can never leave the past behind

I can see no way, I can see no way

I’m always dragging that horse around

All of his questions, such a mournful sound

Tonight I’m gonna bury that horse in the ground

‘Cause I like to keep my issues drawn

But it’s always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off, oh whoa

And I am done with my graceless heart

So tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart

‘Cause I like to keep my issues drawn

It’s always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off, oh whoa

And it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back (shake him off)

And given half the chance would I take any of it back? (shake him off)

It’s a fine romance, but it’s left me so undone (shake him off)

It’s always darkest before the dawn (shake him off)

(Oh whoa, oh whoa)

And I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t

So here’s to drinks in the dark at the end of my road

And I’m ready to suffer and I’m ready to hope

It’s a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat

‘Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me (oh whoa)

Looking for heaven, for the devil in me (oh whoa)

But what the hell, I’m gonna let it happen to me, yeah

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off, oh whoa

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

Shake it out, shake it out

Shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off, oh whoa

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh (what the hell)

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh 

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh (what the hell)

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

“

[“Shake it out” by Florence & The Machine]

My obsessive brain and the pull of climbers

My brain (or mind?) has the tendency to obsess. I think it always has. 

This tendency has often served me well as it has allowed me to achieve many of my important, most desired, and often vital goals. These (obsessive) goals have been academic, professional, athletic, or connected to major personal changes/milestones/needs. A few times they’ve been people — e.g. the Californian boulderer or the guy at the climbing gym now. 

What all of my obsessive goals have in common is challenge: they’re not only things (or persons) that I really desire; they’re also hard to achieve. And as long as I’m not given a clear, explicit “No”, I continue to hope (or obsess). The other commonality is that there always seems to be at least one: my brain (or mind?) seems to always need something on which to obsess. And I tend to obsess on people when other challenging goals are either absent or not motivating/captivating enough or too stressful. 

It’s also interesting that the most recent persons on whom I’ve obsessed have been climbers: climbers seem to have a huge pull on me. I guess that makes sense, knowing me. Many climbers have the physical build to which I tend to have an aesthetic attraction. Many of them share characters traits that I like (& also share), a mix of problem-solving, risk-taking, and love for the outdoors. But I think there’s also something deeper: I think I feel drawn to climbers because of the profound camaraderie (& thus intimacy) that can form between them. That appeals to my desire for an adventure buddy, my desire of being someone’s “primary adventure buddy”; and in the cases of the Californian boulderer or the guy at the climbing gym now there’s the additional appeal, or hope, of getting a physical, touchy-feely intimacy that I cannot have (& don’t want) with my straight climbing buddies. 

I see all this rationally, in my head, but what can I do to change this in my heart? How can I tell my brain to not obsess when it doesn’t serve me — like now?

Record of some good “big little things”

Choir rehearsal went well last night. 

The only thing that didn’t go well was that I had to leave very early and abruptly: I was so exhausted that I was really afraid I wouldn’t be able to drive myself home safely so I left before the half-way break. 

In the short time I was there, though, I was able to interact with people and actually have nice interactions. 

I think one factor contributing greatly to the difference was my own attitude, or approach: I was simply feeling more confident. The race I did on Saturday and my attempt to pick up the guy at the gym on Tuesday (the results of which are still open) effectively boosted my ego and for the first time I wore my skinny “gay boy jeans” with my tight “gay boy T-shirt” to rehearsal. Maybe the simple fact of having attempted to pick up a guy at the gym — even if in the end it leads to nothing — has given me some confidence, almost a confirmation that I felt necessary for myself, of “really being a gay boy” (despite being aro-ace and despite not having, and not wanting to have, a penis). 

The positive, supportive, and empathic interactions I had had over the week via text msg and email with some of the leaders/guys I trust in the chorus also helped me feel that someone there sees me and has my back. 

And my having posted on the chorus bulletin board about the social, inclusive climbing event I organize/lead, inviting choir members to join, probably also helped — it likely gave me some visibility and helped folks know something personal about me (without having to ask). 

So yesterday evening, for the first time I approached the guy with whom I’ll be carpooling to the retreat next weekend: and he seems really nice and, honestly, also extremely shy. 

One of the guys asked me about the social, inclusive climbing event I organize/lead saying it seems really fun. 

The guy who sat on one side of me at the first rehearsal and who until now was giving me hostile vibes happened to sit on my right again last night. As he took his seat next to me, he greeted me in a friendly way as if we had been friendly with each other for weeks (moody?!). So, since I know he used to climb a bit, I asked him if he had seen my post on the bulletin board about the social, inclusive climbing event; he said “No” and asked me about it and marked it in his calendar and said he’ll join if he’s not too tired at the end of his work day! He might not really mean it or join, but at least he was nice about it.

And after my very early, abrupt (& visible) departure in the middle of rehearsal, three of the leaders/guys that I trust in the chorus texted me to check in and ask if I was OK. 

Last night, I felt that I belonged in this gay men’s chorus. This morning, I still feel that way, and I’m looking forward to Wednesday’s Sectional rehearsal and this weekend’s retreat. 

Hopefully, I’ll continue to feel this way.

First times and big little victories

I’ve raced many half-marathons but in some ways yesterday’s was my first. Another “first” in a week of “first times”. 

It was my first half-marathon run and officially recognized and awarded as a nonbinary athlete. And that equal award for nonbinary athletes exists now within the races of this organization greatly thanks to my efforts. 

It was also the first time I raced without going for time, without trying to get a PR or aiming for the podium. My goal for this half-marathon was, as my coach put it, to “get to the Start line” at the end of 2-3 weeks of major burnout and having just barely recovered from a severe ankle sprain that kept me from running for over seven weeks during the summer. Once I got to the start line, after less than four weeks of preparation for this race, my goal was to get to the Finish line all in one piece, with no new injury. And 13.6 miles later, having negotiated nearly 2,700 feet elevation gain in steep stretches over very technical terrain, there I was all in one piece, with no new injury: mission accomplished! It didn’t matter that it was my slowest half-marathon ever; it doesn’t matter than I power-hiked (instead of jogging) most of the uphills — they were so, so steep! What matters is that I paced myself, I listened to my body every single step of the way and the moment it said, “This is too much”, I slowed down; the moment it said, “I need fuel”, I refueled; the moment it said, “I can go”, I picked up my speed, but carefully, without having to prove anything to anyone — not even to myself. 

A lot of it felt like a weekend hike, a beautiful, albeit cold, weekend hike. 

I was alone on the trail for a lot of the time. I ran/jogged/hiked with no music or earbuds or headphones. I was hyperfocused on the trail and technical terrain in fear of spraining my ankle again but I was still able to get glimpses of the route and scenery — the autumny woods, the hills shrouded in low white clouds and mist, the greens and reds and grays of the landscape around me. 

During most of the race, I just felt like I was there for the journey, there for the ride, like I was just taking myself on a pleasant hike. 

I’ve never raced like that before and in many ways, I believe that to be the greatest accomplishment of yesterday’s race for me: I just got there, did this thing in a way that was enjoyable and fun for myself, did it giving it value for the moment, at each step, regardless of the “numerical outcome” (e.g. time or position/result). I shifted my perspective from one goal (i.e. the “numerical outcome”) to another, that was/is more important: i.e my having gotten there despite the difficulties, in the first place, and my finishing it without further harm to myself. 

I want to try and see the “thing with the guy at the gym” in the same way: it was a huge step for me to go up to a stranger (on whom I have a crush) and ask them to climb with me. I have never done anything like that before and with my “new presentation” it feels even harder/scarier to me. It would be nice if “something” would come out of it — I wish it would. But it is truly secondary (& out of my control). I’ve already taken my big little step, already accomplished my big little goal. 

Just like with yesterday’s half-marathon, I’ve already had my big, little victory.