Shame is a hit-and-run driver in a woman’s life. It gets drunk on her innocence and optimism.
It careens down the highway of the soul, swerving, picking off the freedom to just be. It is such a regular presence that we don’t even realize has taken root in our most sacred palace and extends itself like an infinite redwood into our higher selves.
I admit it’s tempting to wish for the perfect boss, or the perfect parent, or the perfect outfit, but maybe the best any of us can do is not quit. Play the hand we’ve been given and accessorize the outfit we’ve got.