This Is Me Staying

This is me staying—
not because the door finally opened,
not because the sky split into applause
or the past sent an apology wrapped in light.

This is me staying
in the quiet middle,
where nothing miraculous happens
and yet something stubborn remains.

I used to think hope arrived loudly.
That it announced itself with healed hands,
with before-and-after photos,
with a version of me who smiled without effort.

But hope, it turns out,
can be small enough to miss—
a breath taken instead of held,
a morning faced instead of avoided.

This is me staying
after the lesson has already been learned
and the reward never came.
Staying when no one is watching.

I don’t raise a flag for it.
I don’t post about it.
There is no ceremony for choosing
not to disappear today.

Some days, hope is just
not erasing yourself from your own future.
Not calling survival a failure
because it didn’t feel triumphant.

This is me staying
with the version of myself
that still flinches at certain words,
that still checks exits before settling in.

I don’t demand peace from them.
I sit beside them.
I let them be unfinished.

There were years I mistook endurance for emptiness,
thought if joy didn’t arrive dressed in certainty
then it wasn’t real at all.

But hope without celebration
is still hope.
It doesn’t sparkle.
It steadies.

It shows up as doing the dishes
even when the sink feels symbolic.
As replying “I’m okay”
and meaning “I’m still here.”

This is me staying
without rewriting the story.
Without turning pain into a parable.
Without insisting it all made sense.

I stay because something in me
has learned the difference
between wanting escape
and wanting rest.

And rest, sometimes,
is simply allowing the day to end
without calling it a loss.

There is no grand forgiveness here.
No sudden wisdom.
Just a quieter relationship with tomorrow.

This is me staying
when the old voice says,
“You should be past this by now,”
and the new one replies,
“I’m allowed to arrive slowly.”

I don’t promise things will be better.
I promise they will be lived.

I promise to keep the light on—
not as a signal,
but as a habit.

This is me staying,
not because everything healed,
but because something held.

And tonight,
that is enough to remain.