Things We Forget

I found a piece of my old joy in laughter that surprised me one afternoon. It came out of nowhere, and I’ve been chasing it ever since.

I found resilience in every scar—each one proof that I’ve healed before and I will again.

I found hope written in a stranger’s graffiti: “You’re still here. That’s enough.” I kept those words with me.

I found a single star on a cloudy night. It taught me that even light can be stubborn.

I found a flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk and realized: if that can bloom here, so can I.

I found resilience in the mirror one morning. It looked tired, tear-streaked, and still standing.

I once found strength in the sound of my own heartbeat after a panic attack. It reminded me that my body still believes in survival, even when my mind forgets.

I found hope on a day I swore I had none left. It was tiny, fragile, and flickering—but I kept it alive, breath by breath.

I found hope — buried deep under loss, fear, and exhaustion. I dug it out with shaking hands. And I’ve never let it go since.

I found my heartbeat again after years of numbness. That quiet rhythm is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever kept.