There is a tenderness about the city in the morning after a long weekend. There is slowness. The air is dusty and sweet, the streets are emptier than usual. I am thankful to be outside of my usual routine, to take a little time for a coffee in a company of strangers. I feel good about my upcoming day, just the fact to have a day to look forward to. I am wearing a dress, something I rarely do. I like the feeling of this morning. Warm, of but not yet hot, summer, but not quite.

My leg hurts worse than it did during the weekend. I can’t walk fast, I can’t run, I can’t move swiftly about the city, so I make my peace with being late, with accepting my limitations. It’s not that bad.

There are days when my work life feels natural and there are days when it doesn’t. Today the corporate world feels fake. All those high-speed elevators and panoramic views on the city: buildings, buildings, buildings, buildings and a bridge across the river.

I am glad when I finally get home. The town is quant, it smells like rain, there are toddlers rushing to McDonald’s in their soccer T-shirts for a post-game snack. There is homeliness and familiarity that makes me feel strangely tender.

Maybe, that’s what my body is trying to tell me through all these injuries. I am slowly weaning off adrenaline. I am getting better, but I still need help. It’s the same message I heard in January. The same I heard a month ago. I need to find a way to stop doing adrenaline-fuelled work. I need to find my way around oxytocin.