When the Weight Shifts

Even on the hardest days, I am still here. And being here is enough.

When the Weight Shifts

Finding resilience in the rhythm of good days and bad days

Some mornings, I wake up with a little more light in my chest. The air feels easier to breathe, and even small things like a cup of coffee or the sound of birds outside seem to carry me forward. On those good days, I can move with a kind of rhythm, like my body and mind are finally on the same team. I might get through the laundry, make a meal I actually enjoy, or even laugh with someone I love. These are the days that remind me I am still here, still capable of living, not just surviving.

But then there are the other mornings. The ones where my body feels like it is filled with cement, where pain sits heavy in my joints, and every thought drags like a chain. On those days, brushing my teeth feels like climbing a mountain. I move from one small task to another, not because I want to, but because I have to. Survival looks different on bad days. It looks like lying down more than I stand, like tears that come without warning, like silence so deep it hums in my ears.

The truth is, my life swings between these two realities. I do not always know which one I will wake up to. But I have learned that even in the worst of days, there are ways to keep going.

On the hardest days, I remind myself that I do not have to do everything. I just have to do the next thing. Sometimes that is as simple as swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Other times it is getting dressed, even if it is only into a fresh pair of pajamas. I have learned that lowering the bar is not failure. It is survival.

I lean on small rituals to ground me: a warm cup of tea, soft music in the background, or the quiet rhythm of journaling even a few messy lines. When the noise in my mind is too loud, I practice breathing slowly and steadily, in and out, just to remember I am still here.

Nature helps me too. Sitting outside, listening to birds or watching the wind move through the trees, reminds me that life continues all around me even when I feel stuck. Sometimes I close my eyes to meditate, letting stillness soften the edges of my pain. Other times I sink into a long, soothing bath, the warmth wrapping around me like a blanket when nothing else can.

And when I can, I reach out. A text to my sister. A quick phone call. Sometimes I do not even talk about what is wrong. I just need the reminder that I am not alone. Faith helps too, though even that can feel complicated on the darkest days. Still, I hold onto the idea that there is a thread of meaning running through the chaos, even if I cannot always see it.

What I have learned is that no day, good or bad, lasts forever. The good ones remind me of what is possible. The bad ones teach me what I can endure. Together, they shape a rhythm of resilience I never asked for but now carry inside me.

The worst days still come, and when they do, I will not pretend they do not hurt. But I have learned to trust that even in the heaviness, light is still out there waiting. It might arrive quietly, in a moment of laughter, the warmth of a hand, or the comfort of a song I have heard a hundred times, but it arrives.

And when it does, I remember this: getting through is not about being strong every moment. It is about holding on long enough for the weight to shift, even just a little. My survival is built from that holding on, one day at a time.