Still I rise

Still, I Rise From the Sheets

I wake up tired of being brave.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can mend.

The kind that settles deep behind the ribs, where memories collect like rainwater in forgotten buckets.

The kind of tired that comes from carrying names that no longer answer, voices that no longer call, versions of myself that never made it home.

Morning arrives anyway.

The coffee maker doesn't know my heart is broken.

The dog still needs feeding. The dishes still wait. The bills still come. The sun still climbs the fence line like nothing happened.

And maybe that's the hardest part.

That the world keeps moving with its untied shoes and grocery lists and traffic lights,

while something inside me is kneeling beside a grave only I can see.

Some days I stand at the bathroom mirror and practice looking normal.

I brush my teeth.

I fix my hair.

I answer messages.

I say, "I'm doing okay."

And maybe that isn't a lie.

Maybe okay is just what survival sounds like when it has lost its singing voice.

Because I'm still here.

Still putting one foot in front of the other.

Still opening curtains.

Still washing clothes.

Still remembering to water the plants while whole forests inside me have burned to the ground.

People call these little things.

But grief knows better.

Grief knows sometimes getting dressed is an act of courage.

Sometimes making dinner is a victory.

Sometimes breathing steadily through another afternoon is the most heroic thing a person can do.

I have learned

that healing is not a straight road.

It circles.

Returns.

Knocks unexpectedly.

A song. A smell. A date on the calendar.

And suddenly the old ache is standing in the doorway again.

Not asking permission.

Just reminding me that love once lived here.

So when the sadness comes, I don't fight it anymore.

I pull up a chair.

I let it sit beside me.

Because every wound I carry points toward something I cherished.

And every tear that falls proves my heart is still capable of feeling.

Still capable of loving.

Still capable of hoping.

And somehow, against all evidence, against all exhaustion, against the weight of all I miss,

morning keeps finding me.

And I keep answering.

Not because I'm fearless.

Not because I'm healed.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because there is something stubborn inside the human spirit.

A small wild thing.

A spark.

A heartbeat.

A whispered voice that says,

"Get up."

"Wash your face."

"Open the door."

"Carry what you can."

"Try again."

And so I do.

I rise from the sheets.

I gather my grief.

I tuck it gently under one arm.

And together,

we step into another day.