What Matters Most
Not the clamor of clocks
or the glitter of things made to rust—
but the breath that comes easy
in the morning light,
the stretch of limbs that carry us
through the soft weight of being.
Health is not a trophy,
but a quiet agreement with the body:
to listen when it whispers,
to rest when it pleads,
to move,
not for punishment,
but for pleasure and strength.
The mind, too, is a garden.
Tend it with kindness.
Pull the weeds of cruel thought
by the root.
Let sunlight in—
laughter,
forgiveness,
the hush of being enough.
Joy is not always loud.
It lives in the ordinary:
a song you hum without knowing,
the heat of tea in your palms,
a breeze that understands you.
Happiness is a cousin to joy,
but it stays longer
if you let it arrive without demand.
Peace is the deepest luxury—
not something bought,
but uncovered,
layer by layer,
beneath the noise.
It waits where stillness lives,
where you remember to breathe
before reacting,
where silence isn’t loneliness
but presence.
And self-care—
not a trend,
but a quiet revolution.
To choose yourself gently,
to speak with compassion
inside your own mind,
to leave a party when you’re tired,
to say no
and not explain.
A good life isn’t perfect.
It is awake.
It is nourished.
It is a hand on your own heart,
saying,
I am here. I will stay.
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