Fifty Days In
Fifty days in, and I’m not where I was, but I’m not where I was told I’d be either. I can stand. I can move. I can lift, even if it’s light and ugly and slow. My body is battered, stitched, numb, leaking, and missing pieces, but my mind? My mind is on fire. Somewhere between broken bones and stubborn refusal, I finished the work. And that counts for something. Maybe everything.
A Good Day
Recovery isn’t linear. Some days you live too far inside your own head, spiraling through thoughts that don’t always land somewhere warm. And then—sometimes—the universe throws you a bone. A good day. A real one. A day where the words flow, where purpose snaps back into focus, where unexpected kindness reminds you that life is still happening. Yesterday was one of those days. And those days matter more than people realize.