So, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was a bright, intelligent, and semi-attractive girl who breezed through middle school, high school, and her first year of college. Her grades weren’t exemplary, they weren’t something you’d put up on the fridge (mainly because they were consistent, and there is nothing exciting or refrigerator-worthy about consistency), but they were enough to get her a scholarship or two at her first choice school. She bowled well enough to get a scholarship in the sport to use toward her membership dues and she had a great first year of college. She made lots of friends and maintained a good friend group while she was on campus. She had a fantastic roommate the second semester of freshman year and things were going well.

However, she decided that she didn’t want to go to that four-year university anymore. She didn’t like who she had become at the four-year university. She just simply wanted to get married and have a simple life doing whatever it is she was doing. So, she transferred to a community college, eventually changed her major, and everything turned out well. Right? RIGHT?

WRONG.

Well, only partially wrong. Fast forward to August 2016. She starts school at that community college. She lands her first job (not her dream job, but it’s a job that pays). She stays ahead in her classes until October, when she finds out that part of her body isn’t working correctly, some of her coworkers have some issue against her that they won’t bring forward, and she is all around a miserable mess. She quits on New Year’s Eve, goes back home, spends part of her last paycheck on a mini refrigerator in the hopes of making new habits for herself, which ultimately fail because resolutions suck.

Who is that girl? Well, it’s me.

The reason I told you that story is because it all lead up to my revelation. A thought dinged into my head, and I think I finally understand why I’m a miserable mess and why I think I fail all the time.

It’s not because I’m actually failing.

It’s not because I’m forced into some bubble that I can’t pop.

It’s just me and my head space.

Let me explain: The thought that popped into my head is “life is what you make of it.” I use to think that was some asinine phrase that people use for motivation or as a motivational front for when their lives are falling apart. However, I’ve come to realize that that is just way far from the truth, like far left of it. It’s just not right.

Life truly is what you make of it. You can choose to be mopey, be distracted, and let your head space continue to be muddled with negativity, or you can let that stuff go. Meditate. Do some yoga. Figure out a routine. Get your **** together. Sometimes life has to yank you by the seat of your pants in order for you to actually get it.

For me, getting my life together means losing that weight, planning my wedding, getting another job and making sure I take the medicines necessary to make me be the best version of myself.

I am no longer going to sit around and mope.

I will no longer allow events occur that can be prevented.

I will no longer let the little things stress me out.

Life is what you make of it, and, as a good friend once said, “Negative Nancy is out, Positive Polly is in.”

Or, shall I say, Satisfied Sarah is in.