Some mornings, I wake up and my body feels light. I make breakfast without thinking about it—toast, coffee, a banana. I reply to texts quickly, even crack a joke. I notice things: the neighbor’s dog wagging its tail, the way sunlight hits the kitchen counter. On these days, I run errands, call my sister, fold laundry. It’s ordinary, but it’s enough.

Then there are days when I wake up already tired. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I stare at the ceiling, counting the minutes until I have to move. My phone lights up with a friend’s name, but I let it ring. I tell myself, Tomorrow I’ll answer, but I know I’ll say the same thing tomorrow.

Showering feels like a chore. I stand under the water too long, then not long enough. My toothbrush sits dry by the sink. I eat crackers from the box because dishes feel impossible. The guilt starts here: You’re failing at being a person, my brain whispers. I argue back—I brushed my hair today, didn’t I?—but the guilt wins.

Anxiety shows up like a bad song stuck in my head. It replays conversations: Did I sound rude? Why did I say that? It invents disasters: What if the car breaks down? What if they hate me? I try to distract myself—turn on the TV, scroll through my phone—but my thoughts just get louder.

The worst part is the loneliness. I want someone to say, I see you’re struggling, but I don’t want to explain why. I draft texts: “Having a hard time.” Delete. “Can you call?” Delete. The silence grows until it’s its own noise.

Then, one morning, I wake up early. The coffee tastes good. I water the plants, reply to three texts, and wear a shirt that isn’t pajamas. I don’t know why today is different. Maybe my body needed rest. Maybe the weather shifted. It doesn’t matter—I’ll take it.

I know the heavy days will come back. They always do. But I’ve started keeping a list in my phone: “Washed one dish.” “Walked to the mailbox.” “Ate something warm.” Tiny things, but they remind me I’m still here, still trying.

Today, I tie my shoes. Open the blinds. Let the light in.