The Hidden Battles

It wasn't grand epiphanies

but making the bed on days

when gravity seemed heavier.

The victory in six sips of water

when my throat felt lined with dust.

The rebellion of clean hair.

Walking three blocks

past the boundary of fear

just because the sun looked different there.

The text I sent despite the voices

saying no one wanted to hear from me.

The meal I made when appetite had fled.

Feeding the cat when I couldn't feed myself.

Opening curtains to let light touch

what darkness had claimed.

Breathing through the panic in aisle seven,

then finishing the shopping anyway.

Small wars, invisible medals.

The world never saw

how I battled to brush my teeth,

how I conquered the shower floor,

how I negotiated with silence.

These mundane moments

unremarkable to anyone but me

built the bridge back

one ordinary plank at a time.

This is how healing happens:

not in revelation

but in routine,

not in lightning strikes

but in light switches

turned on, again and again.