When the Day Feels Heavy

Some days, I wake up

and the light just doesn’t reach me.

It’s there — I can see it —

but I can’t feel it.

Like I’m behind a window

no one else knows is there.

 

I move slow.

I breathe slow.

I try not to blame myself

for the weight I’m carrying.

It’s no one’s fault —

not even mine.

 

I make my coffee,

even if I don’t drink it.

I brush my hair,

even if no one will see me.

I do the small things,

the quiet things —

the things that remind me

I’m still here.

 

Depression isn’t loud.

It’s the hush in the room.

The way the world feels far away.

Like I’m walking barefoot

on cold tile

in the early morning.

 

But I’ve learned something:

I don’t have to chase the sun.

I can just wait.

It always finds me again.

Not all at once —

but gentle,

like a warm hand

on my back.

 

And until then,

I’ll be soft with myself.

I’ll rest.

I’ll breathe.

I’ll stay.

 

The world will wait.

And when I’m ready,

I’ll stand up again.