I’m Tired of Overanalyzing My Personal Choices

home insemination Kit

The other day, I made a questionable decision about my footwear for a trip to the park. I slipped on my favorite black canvas shoes, which my friend Sam teasingly dubbed my “skate shoes.” They offer no support whatsoever, yet I can’t resist how stylish they are. They exude youthfulness, simplicity, and an air of fun. Uncomplicated, unburdened, and utterly relaxed. They embody the carefree life I aspire to lead.

However, I’m now paying for my choice. My shins are screaming in agony—so much so that I’ve popped three extra-strength pain relievers. That’s probably one too many, but boy, was the day enjoyable! We dashed between the “little kid zone” and the “big kid zone” repeatedly. My daughter is caught in that delightful in-between stage, and it’s all wonderfully novel for both of us.

In those shoes, I kept pace with her as she scaled the rock wall, traversed the wobbly bridge, and zoomed down what she affectionately called the “big, beautiful tunnel slide.” I didn’t let my claustrophobia deter me from following her down that slide, nor did I allow my fear of heights to stop me from reaching the top of the jungle gym. Those shoes seemed to transform me back into the adventurous girl I once was and the mom I’ve always dreamed of being.

I found myself moving faster than usual in those shoes, as if they demanded it. They’re what the kids wear, what the trendy moms wear, and I’m sure my own inner child would approve of them.

Now, I’m contemplating a change in my hairstyle, and the same thought keeps surfacing: “I adore ____ but I’m too old for that.” The blank can be filled with pastel pink, bold lavender, rich burgundy, or even chunky blonde highlights. Each time I entertain a new idea, I spiral into overthinking and start doubting my ability to express myself, which makes browsing hairstyle options feel like an unexpected therapy session. My hair seems static while I’m evolving.

I’m daring and more at ease in my own skin, and I strive not to fret over the implications of sporting vibrant hair or quirky glasses. Even being that nearly 50-year-old mom chasing her 3-year-old around Nomahegan Park in the wrong shoes, having a blast, feels right. I refuse to believe I’m too old to pursue my true passions—whether it’s motherhood or writing.

I’m penning my own narrative now. That includes rocking my “wrong” sneakers, even knowing my shins will protest tomorrow. I’ll dye my hair in a wild shade soon enough. No more overanalyzing the things that spark joy in my life. I’m ready to embrace them wholeheartedly.

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In summary, I’m choosing to stop overthinking my choices, whether it’s in my fashion or career aspirations. Life is too short not to enjoy the little things—like a pair of playful sneakers or a splash of color in my hair.