Instructions for Waking Up

First, do not bully the light.

Let it sneak in through the cheap blinds,

thin as a rumor,

slow as an apology that took years to form.

Your phone will offer a liturgy

of red dots and blue icons,

each one a rented emergency.

Turn it face down.

Let the world knock on a door

You haven’t built yet.

Find your hands.

They’re somewhere between the sheet

and the weight you didn’t ask for.

If they’re shaking, good.

It means the body still remembers.

How to spell “trying.”

Step one is not “be okay.”

Step one is “sit up.”

Let your feet practice gravity—

cool floor, old dust,

the sock you didn’t quite kick off last night.

Congratulations. You’re now in orbit.

Look at anything

That isn’t a reflection:

The plant is attempting photosynthesis

on three hours of sun a week,

The mug from that gas station

on the road trip you almost canceled,

The chair is still holding yesterday’s jacket

like it believes you’ll need it again.

Breathe like you’re explaining

the concept to a child—

in,

hold,

out—

No metaphors, just oxygen.

You don’t have to love the day.

Just give it a hallway

to walk down.

If the mind starts handing you

every ending at once,

Answer with one small verb:

stand,

or shower,

or toast.

Pick the gentlest one and do that.

Call it a victory. Refuse the audit.

When you speak to yourself,

Use the same voice

You reserve for friends

who texts “sorry for the drama”

at 2:14 in the morning.

You never thought they were a burden.

Believe you,

for once.

Open the curtain

one inch wider

than yesterday.

Let the sky see you.

Rumpled and uncomposed,

still here.

If today is the day

You only make it

from bed to couch,

Know this:

the distance between those two continents

could shame oceans.

At some point,

You will laugh at something small—

the way the bread lands butter-side up,

the way the kettle sounds

like it’s impersonating a train,

the way your own heart

refuses to file the resignation.

When night comes,

Do not call this survival “not enough.”

Measure it in breaths.

in avoiding cliffs,

in the simple, staggering fact

that the bed you left this morning

is the bed you return to,

and you,

despite everything,

are still the ones inside it.

Tomorrow,

You can rewrite the instructions.

Today,

“wake up”

is already

a masterpiece.