Yet it was one of those desires tucked into a side pocket and until a little 13 year old whipped one out right in front of me in the desert, that card might have just remained tucked there eternally.

There once was a girl who rode her bike.

“I just need to stop trying, that’s what has been preventing me from shifting. I just need to stop trying.” Her enthusiasm equaled a person experiencing enlightenment, transcendence, or an a-ha moment on steroids.

Tide was high and I stumbled getting into the water. It felt like a test, telling me I should quit now. I looked ridiculous getting into the water, stumbling on hidden rocks under the water. Once beyond the shore break I paddled to the left. As I approached two surfers I announced my ineptness. Then I heard, “Terra, is that you?”

There is no other word that so concisely describes what living three decades with diabetes has gifted me. It has been a process each of those thirty years, and I've had a tremendous time. 

Twenty-nine years living with diabetes. My essence continues to breathe, and for that, I sit every day in appreciation.

Both my blood sugar and my weight are just numbers.

I think it reminds me of running through the forest as a kid, perhaps riding motorcycles through the trees by the family's lake cabin or even the dune buggy rides along the country roads. Whatever the reason, I adore running on dirt. In the PNW, where I grew up, the pine needles would heat up, and the smell is unique but unmistakable in the summer.

Twenty-six years of living with diabetes. It is a distinct sound, hollow and bold, that a sea kayak makes when it arrives at the shore on the rounded rocks. I pull my neoprene spray skirt by the loophole and exit.

All night long, it rained. All night long, it rained. All night long, it rained.