there’s a kind of magic in the force of habit.

I can’t tell you, or even myself, why I do certain things. Why I take my socks off every night before bed, or why I pick my fingers until they bleed. I can’t tell how I start or stop doing certain things either — how I stopped having the intrusive thoughts I had as a kid, or how I started going to the gym four times a week once upon a time.

No matter how many times I tell myself I’ll do something, it never happens — until it does. Something clicks. It doesn’t feel like anything’s changed, but suddenly I can just do it. I can’t force myself to listen to myself, I can just wait until I do.

It must be the neurotic in me that wants every positive behavior to be a perfect habit. If I don’t do it every day, it’s not part of me, and it doesn’t count. I’m trying to tell myself that I don’t need to have the best day ever to have a good day overall. Not best is not a waste, and good is good.