My cup is full—
not brimming with riches,
nor spilling with praise,
but steady with the quiet weight
of enough.
Warm hands cradle it,
feeling the pulse of small joys:
the morning’s first breath,
a remembered kindness,
the soft thrum of hope
that hums without shouting.
I sip slowly,
letting gratitude rise like steam—
a gentle fog that softens
all the edges of the day.
And in this simple fullness,
I learn again
that abundance isn’t loud;
it glows—
a quiet ember
in a cup that’s finally mine.
Therapy Bits 
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