It’s been a year. A year since we moved back to Texas. A year since we moved into this house. A year since a tiny stray kitten landed on our doorstep and became the newest member of our family. (Sidenote: Look how big he is now!! He weighed barely over a pound when we got him, the scrawny little street-rat! Gavroche is now a very well-behaved and loving beast of a cat.)

The two years before this last year were awful, nearly every part of them, but I’m happy to say that things have steadily improved over the last year. Things are not perfectly well, of course – as I mentioned last week, life can be very hard – but they’re better and that’s what counts.

Around this time every year, I think about my first tattoo, inked shortly after my life fell apart in 2013. Strength. A reminder to stay strong, a reminder that I am strong, that I can and will survive. And I have. I may not be thriving yet, but I’ve survived. I’m still here, and one day, hopefully soon, I’ll thrive.