Thank heaven for one simple truth I’ve found to be evident in my life: each day has its own unique 24-hour lifespan. Put another way, each day is a little life all unto itself. Put even another way, the feelings, insecurities, challenges, uncertainties and general unpleasantries that exist one day—even given serious consideration at the time—tend to dissolve once the next set of 24 hours rolls around.

Of course, the way things work, this principle implies that happy, joyful, energetic things are on the 24-hour chopping block, too. They are.

And, you know, some life things are major. They require much longer than one humble day to begin forming shades of resolution or acceptance. But for the most part, you can be thankful that whatever sucks today will most likely be sucking it tomorrow.

Who does this? Default ring tones vary from cutesy comical to alarm clock irritating. I don’t care for any of them, so I keep my phone on vibrate for phone calls. I can’t imagine going through the trouble of assigning particular ring tones to particular people. What’s the mental process? If a song reminds you of someone, or vice versa, you create/purchase a customized ring tone?

People are great, but what everyone needs is a place. Their place. The place that is a refuge from daily life, that feels safe, that makes your blood pressure fall simply by walking through the door.

My place is the gym. Not just any gym, but the gym I’ve belonged to for three years. At first, I didn’t think much of it. It’s not glitzy, no glam. In fact, it’s old people, a lot of them. One might easily mistake it for a senior living home at first glance. Ladies with walkers and full faces of makeup playing bridge at 11 a.m. Men in calf-length socks and white sneakers, walking on the treadmill, slowly.

It’s also tennis players, a lot of them, many of them kids or teenagers. The courts are nice, and there’s usually some regional tournament or something going on. The youth helps balance the frail age, though there’s really no in-between here, at my gym.

It’s not new. Or remodeled, for that matter. There’s a maintenance man who keeps on leaky ceilings and chipping paint, but I’d guess most everything is largely unchanged since the place was built (maybe sometime in the ’80s). I like this aspect of my gym. Not everything has to be shiny and trendy to be functional. And functionally, it has what I need: StairMasters, free weights, some weight machines. Space. A small room with wood floors and mirrored walls to practice dance. A roomy locker room with hairdryers, cotton balls, even mouthwash. A sauna. A private, hot, coal-burning sauna that usually has no one in it.

The people at the front desk know me. They’re friendly. But mercifully, they just say “hi,” then I’m on my way. I don’t have to tell them how I am. What I did last weekend. How my son is doing. We just say “hi.”

Gratitude is slippery, hard to latch onto. It comes in quickly and goes away even quicker. I don’t practice gratitude for the wealth in my life as often as I should. But every day when I open the door to my gym—the door on the right, the one with the handle that’s been kinda busted for months—I actively feel grateful.

And I don’t even have to try.

I skipped my annual gynecology checkup last year. Not sure why. No reason, really, other than maybe a general feeling like, “Eh, I’m ok.” I passed my last annual exam, the year prior, with flying colors. I felt fine. I’d been taking care of myself, with the exception of drinking more than I probably should.

Then I kept hearing stories about people becoming sick. Like really sick, like terminally sick. And stories about people who caught potential life-threatening things early because they were diligent about checkups. And stories about people who spotted issues that turned out to be nothing, but they went to their doctors just to make sure.

All these incidents made me think that maybe the universe was trying to tap my shoulder. So, I made an appointment. The morning of, I drove to the practice’s secondary location instead the primary (and correct) one. I briefly considered rescheduling.

Once I arrived at the right place, I did all the normal pre-exam things. Read a trashy celeb gossip magazine in the lobby. Felt vaguely nervous for no reason. Listened to front desk staff bicker. Waited for my name to be called.

In the exam room, I got in my flimsy blue paper gown. The nurse checked my blood pressure and weight and closed the door. “The doctor will be right with you.” Which, of course, they never are. I debated shuffling across the cold, hard floor in my bare feet for my phone. The room was chilly. Quiet. Sterile as they always are, with pamphlets of information about preventative this, risks of that. Whatever.

She walked in. She was friendly. I hadn’t met her before. I didn’t like my old doctor, so I switched. This one seemed better. She felt my boobs. “Ok, I feel a lump here.” So matter of fact. It’s like, WHAT?!

I think not-doctor people forget that this is what doctor people do every day. It’s a job. It’s not precious. It’s medicine. It’s science. It’s not emotion and puppies and marshmallows and honey.

You kind of instinctively wait, though, after being told by a doctor that you have a lump. Even the word “lump” is ugly and gross. Makes sense that it’s monosyllabic. Doesn’t deserve more than one beat.

She pressed around for a few more seconds, glancing abstractly toward a corner of the room. “It’s small,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure it’s benign. But what you’re gonna do is, I’m gonna write you an order for a mammogram and ultrasound, and you’re gonna call, and make an appointment, and they’ll be able to tell you more. Ok?”

I mean, what do you say to that? “Ok.” It certainly doesn’t sound ok. It sounds like a nightmare. “Should I be worried?” I asked her. She said no. I wanted to ask why I had to do scary tests if I shouldn’t be worried. But I didn’t. I was quiet. I didn’t say much else. Neither did she. When the whole thing was over, she left the room. I quickly realized she’d moved on with her day, and her life, by the time she closed the door.

Not me. That one sentence—”Ok, I feel a lump here”—launched me into a week of sleepless nights, sleeping pills, anxiety attacks and ridiculous Google searches that had me convinced I was in the late stages of too late. The mind is powerful. Fear is powerful. The two together are a dream team, convincing each other of things that simply aren’t true.

Yesterday I had the mammogram and ultrasound. It was ok. I think everything is ok. I have to do a biopsy Tuesday. They’ll numb my boob with novocaine, which sounds kind of fun. I mean, when else do you get to experience a totally numb titty?

Life is hard sometimes, but is it, really? I’m a 36-year-old white woman living in an upscale suburb of a major metropolitan city. I have a good job. I have a reliable car. I have a healthy child. I have my own health. I can afford good food, wholesome food. Shit, I can afford a $5 cup of espresso every morning. If I lost everything tomorrow, I could move back to Denver and live with my parents. We wouldn’t end up on the streets.

And I say life is hard. My life is not hard.

But life can feel hard because it’s constant. Relentless. There’s always something to take care of, to pay for, to contest, to follow up on. Maybe “hard” is the wrong word. Annoying, though. Trying. Constant. Constant. Constant.

I have trouble finishing books. I have troubling keeping up blogs. It’s an attention-span thing. I hope to keep this one around because it’s the most genuine blog I’ve written that’s still OK for public consumption.

I just came across another blog from about 10 years ago that wasn’t intended for the greater world. The theme was short, honest letters to people I loved, hated or both. Cathartic writing. Some of the posts have a special place in my heart, can’t let them go to waste. So, in an ongoing series, I’ll present them here.

I like social media because it allows me to broaden my daily experience, even if only digitally. I’m what is deemed a “lurker.” I have Twitter and Instagram (I hate Facebook), but my usernames are my secret. I refresh my feed about once a minute, though.

The other day I looked up a girl who was in my ballet class…20 years ago. I found her blog first, which led me to her Instagram, which led me to a “throwback Thursday” photo of her. And me. Twenty years ago.

You just don’t expect that, you know? To check an Instagram feed of someone you knew two decades ago and see a picture of yourself as a teenager. She didn’t include my name in the caption, just a reference to the ridiculous outfits we wore (sequins and suspenders…the ‘90s). A white streak of glare ran across the image, suggesting she’d snapped a picture of a print.

This girl comes to mind every time I do sit-ups. Even at 14, she had a six-pack. One evening after a conditioning class in which no one could complete all the sit-ups but her, I asked, “Don’t all those sit-ups hurt?” Her reply, I think verbatim: “Yes, they hurt like hell. But when you’re done, you’ve done it and it pays off.”

I remember that when my stomach muscles cramp and I want to quit. And now, I’ll also think of how weird the Internet is.

I used to run three days a week, and that was enough. I’d run hard and long and didn’t think about it beyond that.

Then I met Molly, a co-worker who, despite two young children and a crappy commute, found a way to run every day. She just did it. No excuses. No sleeping in if it cost her a workout. No going to bed if it precluded a run. A bunch of people would think her obsessive and unhealthy. I admired her drive. And now, I’ve made it mine.

I haven’t felt this stable, at peace and ok with myself in many years…a decade? The focus is proving to be worth the work.

All I wanted was a scone from Starbucks because Instagram caught the light of sugar crystals that topped a scone from Starbucks and with some coffee on the last day of February, a leap year no less, it seemed so simple.

I ordered a scone from Starbucks and felt gross and doughy eating it thanks to another side of Instagram that showcased elite athletes training, sweating, reaching. I run almost every day now, hard runs, long runs, uphill slogs, but at 10:27 a.m. today I was a 33-year-old woman eating white sugar on white flour that Instagram had lured me to consume.

What’s with the phrase “I hope you understand”? Particularly when it follows an undesirable or uncomfortable sentiment. The speaker is forcing a fate on the listener, then attempting to round the edges with a feeble, usually disingenuous pretty ribbon.

No, I don’t understand.