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Thoughts & musings of an idealist stuck somewhere between cynicism and enthusiastic hopefulness.
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12 months.
52 weeks.
365 days.
What is it about a year that it seems so crucial for healing? For moving on? For getting over major loss?
It’s symbolic of a hopeful future – if you’ve survived that first year, you can certainly survive the subsequent ones. Everything’s supposed to get easier after that first year.
But if it’s such a good thing, why is that first anniversery so damn glaring on my calendar?
