#coachdavis

At least it’s Sunday was Lorianne’s mantra throughout the entire day. At least it’s Sunday, at least it’s Sunday, she says over and over again inside her mind, hoping it might ease her nerves. She’s been endlessly anxious these days and the prospect alone has killed her. She was once a firecracker, this town’s cool girl. And now she was just another somebody, falling victim to her hidden insecurities and sorrows. 

"Coffee," Ray asked as she shuffled barefooted through the kitchen, sluggishly making her way to the coffee maker. She barely managed to stifle a yawn. Saraya had never been a morning person. In a perfect world, the day would begin at 10a.m. She'd spend her first hour awake sketching all the things she'd dreamed the night before, two cups in hand -- dirty paint water in one, coffee in the other (in her fantasies, and in real life, Ray was fueled by coffee.) Then she'd catch up client messages, spend the next few hour or so on the intricacies of self-marketing, before throwing herself fully into her passion -- painting. She'd end the day with her son, basking in the glory of motherhood, before finally turning in for the night, fulfilled with the perfection that was her life.

Instead, she lived in a world that required that she be awake before 6a.m. bleary eyed and all just so that she could carve out a few moments for herself before the rush of being a working mother consumed her. "So, any plans for today?"