The Day I Chose to Keep Going

There are days when getting out of bed feels like the hardest thing in the world. That day, I felt it deeply.

The sun was already high, but I sat motionless at the edge of the bed, staring at the empty floor. Voices in my head whispered, “Just quit. Why even try?”

I almost listened. I almost gave up.

But amidst all that noise, there was a smaller voice. A whisper that said, “Just one more step.”

I wasn't sure if it was my own voice or a small miracle, but I followed it. I stood up and took a step. Then another.

Those small steps led me outside. I walked slowly down the sidewalk, letting the morning air brush against my face.

The streets were quiet, only the sound of the wind and dry leaves accompanied me.

I realized — I was alive. I was moving.

Every small step I took that day felt heavy, but meaningful. Not because I was magically healed from all doubts and exhaustion, but because I chose not to stop. I chose to move, even if it was just an inch forward.

That night, while writing in my journal, I learned something important:

Not every battle needs a big victory. Sometimes, surviving means taking just one small step.

And that day, I chose to keep going.

Not because I was strong, but because I was brave enough to give myself one more chance.