Some days arrive like strangers wearing your face. You open your eyes and already the room is too loud, too full of shadows you can’t explain. The air forgets how to touch you gently. There is no pain, not exactly—only the slow unraveling, the kind that whispers instead of screams. You learn to carry this quiet undoing like a secret folded in the lining of your coat.
They say healing is a journey, but no one warns you it will feel more like circling the same block, tripping over the same cracked sidewalk. You become an archaeologist of your own mind, brushing the dust from old wounds just to remember where they are. Some are older than language, buried too deep to name.
But then—swift as breath after drowning—there are mornings when the light slips in and sits beside you like an old friend. You remember how tea tastes. How birds still sing. How your name has not been forgotten by the sky. You do not trust it, this sudden gentleness, but you let it stay.
You keep going. That is the miracle. Not joy, not clarity. Just that: you keep going. You, made of ache and persistence. You, a cathedral of cracked stained glass still catching sun.
Therapy Bits 
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