photoI’ve loved Cheryl Strayed for a very long time. I love Dear Sugar and my favorite mother f-ing mug is more or less attached to my hand.

I’m rereading Tiny Beautiful Things right now. It is one of those books that you can read over and over because every time it feels a little different and will mean something else and something more. Last time, I felt this. Right now, it feels like this:

“She’d have to find a way within herself to not only escape the shit, but to transcend it, and if she wasn’t able to do that, then her whole life would be shit, forever and ever and ever…She had to do more than hold on. She had to reach. She had to want it more than she’d ever wanted anything…Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal…but the healing–the genuine healing, the actual real deal down-on-your-knees-in-the-mud change–is entirely and absolutely up to you.”

Holy shit. If that isn’t the last few years of my life then I don’t know what is. I think I love Cheryl Strayed right now more than any other stranger I’ve ever loved. I hope that one day I can write the way she does. The way that makes tears stream down your face when you’re reading it but you don’t even know why you’re crying or maybe you don’t even realize you’re crying until tears start to drip onto the page. The way that kind of makes you feel like you can’t breathe at all but are breathing everything in all at once at the same time.

Yeah. Tiny Beautiful Things. I’m pretty sure these are what life is made of.