Therapy Bits

There was a wound once—
a quiet storm stitched beneath the skin,
where every heartbeat echoed loss
and even laughter felt like glass.

I tried to forget it
by building walls out of silence,
but silence grows heavy
when it has no place to rest.

Then came the small things:
the smell of rain on the first warm day,
the hum of a friend’s voice
saying nothing important—
and everything that mattered.

Healing didn’t arrive like thunder.
It crept in softly,
like dawn pressing light through the blinds—
a kindness I didn’t know I could keep.

And one day,
in the time it takes to blink,
the world seemed less sharp,
the air easier to breathe.

Now I carry both the ache and the ease,
not as enemies,
but as teachers
who taught me the shape of surviving.

And in their wake,
I finally learned to stay.

RDP SATURDAY: BLINK