Sometimes I think about all the things said and done. The collected heartaches and tears. The journal pages filled of questions, asking if I’m enough. What’s a life measured in? The years spent from birth to death? The hours spent behind a desk? Or the moments spent with those you love? All these books in my library and no librarian in sight. The only thing separating us is my emotional baggage, a wall of anxiety, and my unwillingness to let go.