My mother and I have a routine: at an unscheduled time every day, I would receive a phone call from my mother. If I sacrifice my sanity and answer, I am met with a 20 minute lecture on how I don’t call her enough, I don’t sleep enough and that I don’t eat enough spinach. Then I’d groan and make false promises of calling her the next day. And so the cycle continues.

My relationship with my parents has been on the rocks for as long as I can remember. And it’s not that I don’t love my parents when I choose not to pick up the phone or come home for the weekend. The integrity of my connection with them only survived by keeping them at arm’s length.

Until one night this week, I called my mother frantically in the middle of the night. And she picked up. She told me everything was okay, and her and my father drove up the next day to eat shitty Indian food with me at Indian Pavilion while I debriefed my week of heartbreak, failure, and misery. I called my mother and told her about my day the next evening. I was patching things up with my parents.

The next morning, I started taking my medication regularly. Afternoon rolled around, and I carved out an hour for Pilates and a 2 mile run after avoiding the gym for months. I recommitted to studying for the LSAT, made time for my research, and went to the mosque for the first time in years. After facing something unexpected this week and sitting with the pain for a few days (while listening to Taylor’s album), I didn’t think I was strong enough to handle it anymore. I thought I was stuck where I was, but two days later, I wrote a powerful statement to myself in my journal: “Today is Day 1 of getting my life back.”

Truth is, I’m proud of myself. I finally let myself partake in a reality where I am doing well in spite of Karma’s/God’s confusing plans for me. I can’t explain why it took me this long to internalize it, but if you truly desire change, it is never too late to turn things around.