there is room
Tag: mental health
stuck
i can’t get moving today. i’m stuck in one place. literally and figuratively. i have so many things i want to do. it’s the second day of summer break but i’m frozen cross-legged in my bed, unable to move. i’m weighed down by everything. i have laundry to fold, laundry to do, things to organize and put away from the end of the school year, winter clothes to take to the attic. but i’m glued to this spot.
my inner critic says i have to compete with all that i did yesterday. i had accomplished so much yesterday morning that by noon i felt drained.
but you know what i did today? i connected. i let out my heartache. i made a plan to “cope ahead” for a hard weekend (father’s day). i cried. i felt. i rested. i slowed down. it’s not even 10 am. my day isn’t wasted. it’s not ruined. i’m not lazy. i’m human. i need to give myself grace and listen to my body.
unmasked
when no one’s asking anything of me,
when i disrobe from my appointed roles,
this is who i think i am:
i feel things way too deeply and most of the time i can’t explain why.
so i turn it into poems. metaphors. art.
i notice everything. the way the sky looks before it rains. the way someone’s voice changes when they’re holding back tears.
i want so badly to be understood,
but the walls that surround me are ten stories high.
i’m soft and angry. sarcastic and sincere.
i want to be held and i want to be left alone.
i’m sad, i’m hurting, i’m raw, and vulnerable. i’m grieving my dad.
i’m working on showing up for myself, even if it looks like barely getting out of bed.
i’m lost and looking for a light to guide my path.
i’m finding my way.
i’m learning that i don’t have to disappear to make other people feel okay.
i hold onto dark humor, quick-witted quips, and unhinged honesty.
i find beauty in what’s cracked and half-finished and real.
i’m slowly learning how to listen to the little version of me and let her draw outside the lines without fixing it.
when no one’s watching, i’m not performing.
i’m becoming.
yellow isn’t the only color
for a long time, happiness felt out of reach—like something loud and golden and far away.
in my head, happiness always looked like the color yellow: bright and shiny, something you couldn’t look away from.
i craved it. i chased it.
but no matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t find it.
i used to think happiness meant feeling amazing all the time. big joy. obvious joy.
now i know that’s not always possible—especially when you’re grieving, or healing, or just trying to make it through a regular tuesday.
so i started redefining it.
i started setting the bar lower. on purpose. not out of giving up, but out of survival. out of honesty.
i started noticing the micro-moments—the ones that don’t sparkle but still carry warmth.
the breeze in my hair. the sun on my face. sweatpants after a long day.
these are the moments where the pain feels less heavy. where i can breathe a little deeper. where life softens, just enough.
happiness isn’t always bright and shiny. sometimes it’s the soft cluck of chicken. sometimes it’s clean sheets, or a warm blanket, or the absence of struggle—even just for a minute.
this list is still growing.
so am i.
