As the first official trailer for the upcoming series gets micro-analyzed and reports roll in that filming for Series Eleven has wrapped, we all continue to twiddle our thumbs waiting for an announcement of the date for the premiere episode. The “wilderness months” (if you will) between seasons are always trying for fans, especially when there’s the promise of a new Doctor to come.

And yet I’m not frothing at the mouth in frustrated anticipation these days.

I can’t tell whether my remarkable indifference—it’s not outright apathy, because I am eager to see Jodie in action—is due to that background feeling of anxiety about how “the first woman Doctor” will be written, a result of the fact that much of my mental energy is being spent on personal/family issues, or merely a side effect of my natural cyclical media interests. Whatever the case (okay, definitely that middle part, so let’s let that one slide), I find myself puzzled when I come across others having reactions I would another year have found to be normal, expected, and shared. I almost don’t recognize myself.

Granted, I don’t participate as thoroughly in internet fandom as I once did, nor have I ever gone looking for spoilers or those breathlessly titled clickbait articles that promise a deep dive into the hidden meaning in every frame of a forty-second spot. I’ll admit that it’s possible that I’ve simply missed something that’s got the rest of fandom abuzz. But my little corner of the internet has been quietly marking time, content to let things come as they will.

I’ve gotta be honest: if it weren’t for the commitment I’ve made to keep blogging on the regular, I’m not sure I would’ve thought about Doctor Who since Christmas. Actually, that’s not true—I probably wouldn’t have thought about it except at Gally and CONsole Room. Both were after Christmas (February and May, respectively), and I definitely thought not only about the show in general, but the upcoming series in particular during those cons.

But given how much of my mindshare Doctor Who has commanded in the past, this feels outright blasphemous. How could I simply… go on with my life? And yet, I think that to some degree, that’s what the Doctor herself would expect of me. “Don’t dwell on me,” she’d say. “You have to live your life. Your wonderful, ordinary life. That’s something I’ll never have.”

Once I’ve stopped to think about how the Doctor would approach things, I actually feel a little better. About everything. My life—whatever its ups and downs, my ignoble struggles and victories—is worth living. It’s worth taking each of those days and giving it whatever I’ve got. Maybe I’ve got it in me to call out someone’s hateful behavior or to vote in an election. But if all I’ve got is making it to the end of the day so that I can wake up again the next morning, then that’s a “win,” too.

So as much as I want to see her, I don’t mind the wait to see the Doctor on screen again. After all—she knows I’ve got shit to do.