The Present Tense of Joy

Mira sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a warm mug of coffee, watching rain bead across the glass. She wasn’t really seeing it—her eyes were focused outward, but her mind was busy reliving old conversations, past mistakes, and moments she wished she could erase or rewrite.

For years, she had walked through life like this—half here, half somewhere else. Some days, it was the sadness of what had been. Other days, it was the fear of what might come next. It had become a habit, like breathing. Like the bitter taste of regret that never quite left her tongue.

Until one afternoon, everything shifted.

It began with a child’s laughter—pure, bright, full of life. Mira looked out and saw a little girl in a yellow raincoat jumping in puddles. Her boots were soaked. Her arms stretched wide as if welcoming the sky. Every drop of rain was a gift to her. She wasn't worrying about dirty clothes, or whether she looked silly, or if tomorrow might be cold.

She was just there, fully alive.

And something inside Mira cracked open.

---

The next morning, Mira didn’t reach for her phone like usual. She left it on the nightstand and walked outside instead. The sun was out again, and the world smelled like earth and renewal. She noticed small things she’d forgotten: the way light slanted through the trees, the quiet songs of birds, the coolness of dew under her bare feet. It was nothing grand. But it was real. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

Mira began practicing presence. Not the type of meditation found in expensive retreats, but simple, honest awareness.

She’d pause when stirring sugar into her tea and listen to the soft swirl of the spoon. She started writing again—short poems about the sound of wind, the warmth of sun on her back, the way silence could feel soft instead of empty. And little by little, the ghosts of her past began to fade—not because they were erased, but because they had no room to live in the brightness of now.

---

People began to notice.

“You look lighter,” her sister told her one day.

“I feel it,” Mira replied.

She didn’t mean weight. She meant the invisible heaviness that had lived on her shoulders for years. The “what ifs.” The guilt. The anxious rehearsals of the future. They had started to loosen their grip.

Living in the present didn’t mean everything was perfect. There were still moments of sorrow, days of doubt. But Mira had learned something vital: joy didn’t have to be loud, or grand, or earned. It could be found in a quiet room, a walk in the park, a shared glance, or a hot drink on a rainy morning.

It could live inside the very act of being here.

---

One evening, Mira sat down and wrote a letter. Not to anyone in particular—more like a poem meant for the version of herself who had once been stuck, sad, and afraid. She folded it neatly and left it between the pages of her old journal.

It read:

"Dear Past Me,"

"You tried your best with what you had. But now, it's time to stop apologizing for old wounds and start making room for new light. You are not your mistakes. You are not your fears. You are not your timeline or your pain."

"You are this breath. This sunrise. This moment."

"Don’t waste it."

"Love, Me."

---

Time moved on. Seasons changed. And Mira kept practicing.

Sometimes, she still remembered the past. But instead of letting it steal from the present, she let it inform her growth. She saw the value in what she had learned—even the hard lessons. She no longer feared the future because she no longer needed to control it.

She had today.

And today was enough.