Instructions for a Heart That Forgot How to Beat

Start small.

Not with fireworks, but with flickers.

A warm mug cupped in both hands.

The smell of rain on pavement.

A memory that doesn’t ache.

Speak gently to your chest.

It may not understand words anymore,

but it remembers tone.

Tell it:

“I know you stopped to survive.”

Tell it again.

Wait for the tiniest reply.

Learn the shape of silence.

Not the loud kind,

not the grief-echo,

but the soft hush of rooms that don’t expect anything of you.

Rest there.

Let yourself miss what was.

Not just the person,

or the moment,

but the version of you who loved with both hands open.

Mourning her is part of healing.

Touch fabric.

Wool. Cotton. Velvet.

Notice how the textures argue.

Choose your favorite and let it remind you

that sensation still belongs to you.

Make space beside the numbness.

You don’t have to evict it.

Just crack the door for something else to visit.

Hope wears quiet shoes.

It slips in when you aren’t looking.

Watch a bird.

Let it do whatever it needs to do.

Fly. Peck. Sing.

The heart is an animal, too.

Give it permission to be strange.

Cry — not for the pain,

but for how long you’ve gone without crying.

Your tears do not betray your strength.

They are how the wound proves it’s still alive.

Rewrite the story.

Start from the scar,

not the shatter.

Let the broken parts be punctuation,

not the end.

Forgive the pulse

for disappearing.

Forgive the days that felt like echoes.

Forgive yourself

for forgetting how to feel.

Water a plant.

Even if it dies, try again.

Life is not a test.

It’s a repetition.

Play a song you used to love.

The one that made you feel something, once.

Let it wash through you.

If it hurts, press play again.

Pain is just another kind of memory.

Breathe like someone is watching you

and willing you to stay.

Because they are.

Even if they’re gone now.

Write a letter to the emptiness.

Say: “You are not my home.”

Fold it. Burn it.

Or keep it safe.

Both are valid rituals.

Collect light.

A sunbeam on the floor.

The glow of a stranger’s smile.

The silver thread across your coffee.

Store it all somewhere quiet.

Stand barefoot on the ground.

Let the world remind you:

you are tethered.

Even when floating feels safer.

Whisper your name.

Not like a question,

but like a promise.

Say it until it sounds like yours again.

Sleep with your hand over your heart.

Not to measure its rhythm —

but to remember its presence.

Laugh — even if the sound cracks.

Even if it feels wrong.

Laughter is just crying’s upside-down twin.

Let them hold hands.

Believe in mornings again.

Not in their perfection,

but in their persistence.

Love something small.

A chipped mug.

A crooked photo.

A line in a book you’ve read ten times.

Let your heart warm without permission.

Return to the mirror.

Look gently.

Do not expect recognition.

Instead, ask:

“What do you need today?”

Be wrong,

and let that be okay.

Mistakes are breathmarks

in the poem of your becoming.

Let someone hold the door for you.

Even if it embarrasses you.

Even if it makes your ribs sting.

Accept the opening.

Step through it.

Create something.

Ugly or trembling or unfinished.

It doesn’t matter.

Creation is how the heart hums

when it remembers its music.

Speak the names you’ve hidden.

Of those you loved.

Of who you were.

Say them with reverence.

They are not shameful. They are roots.

Give yourself to a moment.

Entirely.

Let it devour you.

Joy is a wild animal.

Do not try to tame it.

Begin again.

Not where you left off.

Not where they told you to start.

Begin in the place where your chest lifts

without asking.

Leave space for the unknown.

Let the unnameable sit beside you.

Not everything needs to be solved.

Some things just need company.

Finally —

place your hand on your chest.

Close your eyes.

Wait.

If it comes — the beat,

however fragile —

welcome it like a guest

returning from exile.

And if it doesn’t,

stay anyway.

You are here.

And that is no small miracle.