A difficult day.
A difficult week.
Pride of accomplishment.
Countless times this week, Tim has told me that I'm doing well, that he's proud of me, that I have muscles, that I'm a good writer, that I'm lovely, that my food is delicious, that he's impressed. This alone is enough to keep me going.
(Have I replied adequately, that he is brilliant and reasonable and grounding and witty, that he sparks my intellect, that he is kind and considerate, that he is criminally handsome?)
And it is true. This spring is nothing sickly like last year.