The Small Things That Saved Me

I used to think progress had to shout—

some grand reveal,

a thunderclap shift,

a phoenix tearing through the sky.

But healing?

It arrived quietly,

never all at once.

In fact, it arrived so quietly

I never even knew it was here.

It crept in softly

on the mornings I got out of bed—

even when I didn’t want to.

In the glass of water

I chose to skip meals.

In the message I sent

when isolation told me not to bother.

The thing about little wins is—

they don’t make a scene.

No confetti. No spotlight.

Just quiet persistence,

brick by steady brick,

until you realize

you’re building a life

that doesn’t ache all the time.

Recovery isn’t linear.

We hear that often enough.

But no one explains

what it’s like to orbit the same storm

for weeks, months, years—

and then, one day,

you just...

don’t walk into it again.

That moment?

That’s a win.

Even if no one notices.

Especially if no one notices.

There’s quiet defiance

in saying,

“I don’t have to fix it all today.”

There’s strength

in brushing your hair

on a day your mind swears

you’re not worth the effort.

Some days,

just making it to bedtime

was the win.

Other days,

I laughed—fully, deeply—

and remembered

that joy wasn’t gone.

It was just waiting for me to come back.

We aren’t weak

for counting the small stuff.

We’re wise.

Because those tiny things

are the very bones of recovery, and they are our milestones

and they matter.

The walk around the block

turned into two.

That one task

you crossed off your list.

The call you didn’t avoid.

The hour spent

not believing the worst

about yourself.

These aren’t minor.

They’re massive.

Not because they fix everything—

but because they build trust.

In yourself.

In your resilience.

In the wild idea

that tomorrow

could feel a bit lighter.

We grow in inches,

not leaps.

We bloom in fleeting moments,

not whole seasons.

And still—

look at us.

Growing.

Blooming.

Becoming.

It’s okay to want more.

To dream bigger.

But don’t overlook

the quiet miracles of today.

Like the fact that you’re here,

reading this,

breathing through it.

That matters, too.

Celebrate the small wins—

they’re not stepping stones

to something “real.”

They are real.

They’re how we make it.

And even how we stay, we begin

without erasing where we’ve been.

So here’s to the first

no one noticed:

The first honest reply

to “How are you?”

The first deep breath

instead of spiraling.

The first journal entry

after weeks of silence.

Here’s to the nights

we chose to rest

instead of rumination.

In the mornings,

we opened the blinds anyway.

To the choices

that seemed like nothing

but changed everything.

Little wins

aren’t little.

Their light

is finding its way in.

They’re proof

we’re still here.

Still trying.

Still moving—

in our own time.

So, I’ll keep honoring

every flicker, every shift, every breath

that brings me closer

to feel like myself again—

not the old version,

but the one I’ve fought to become.

Our is for the survivors,

the strugglers,

the quiet warriors

who doesn’t need applause

to know what they’ve made it through.

You’re doing better

than you give yourself credit for.

Keep going.

And please—pause.

Honor every single small win

you’ve made along the way.

We’re not broken

just because our healing

doesn’t fit into highlight reels.

Our progress isn’t polished—

it’s messy, sacred, true.

It looks like it is trying again

when shame says, “stay small,”

like showing up

in a world still whispering

“too much” or “not enough.”

But we’ve learned better now.

We’ve learned the power

of rising without recognition,

of choosing self-trust

over self-judgment,

of naming our progress

even when it’s invisible to others.

We don’t return to prove—

we return to life.

So we claim what’s ours—

the stillness, the fight,

the breath in the dark,

the return to the light.

And in every small triumph

the world forgets to celebrate,

we write our own story—

one page, one win,

one day at a time.