How I Cope on the Hard Days

How I Cope on the Hard Days

Some days, healing doesn’t look like growth.

It looks like breathing through fog.

It looks like surviving the morning.

It looks like remembering that even when the mind whispers “what’s the point,” the heart still beats its steady reply: “keep going.”

On the hard days, I move slow.

I start with the smallest thing — bare feet on the floor.

I let the cold surface remind me that I exist, that I am here.

Sometimes that’s all I can manage,

and sometimes that’s enough.

I light a candle — not for magic,

but for presence.

I watch the flame flicker,

the way light trembles and steadies again.

It teaches me how to breathe:

in, out, in again.

The crow outside my window tilts its head,

black feathers glinting like ink in sunlight.

Even he seems to know —

we don’t have to soar every day;

sometimes, perching is enough.

When the noise in my mind grows too loud,

I turn to my body.

I wash my hands in warm water,

press them against my face,

feel the heartbeat under my skin.

I name what I see —

the scent of soap, the hum of the refrigerator,

the faint light crawling across the floorboards.

These small anchors pull me back to now.

To this breath.

This moment.

Sometimes I step outside,

to let the earth hold me.

Grass underfoot,

air cool against my cheeks.

The world spins on, uncaring and constant,

and somehow that steadiness comforts me.

The sky does not demand my joy.

It only asks that I keep showing up beneath it.

And on the rare days when I can,

I move —

shadowboxing in the living room,

MMA gloves soft against my palms,

breath syncing with motion.

It isn’t about fighting anymore.

It’s about remembering that my body is mine.

That I can create rhythm and power

in a life that once took everything from me.

Coping, I’ve learned, isn’t pretty.

It’s not always journaling or meditating or gratitude lists.

Sometimes it’s crying in the shower,

sometimes it’s folding laundry,

sometimes it’s simply choosing not to disappear.

Grace lives there —

in the quiet act of not giving up.

I no longer ask myself to be radiant on the hard days.

I ask only to be real.

To hold myself like something fragile and sacred.

To trust that even in stillness, I am mending.

Even in shadow, I am worthy of light.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What small rituals help you return to yourself on hard days? How can you offer yourself grace instead of judgment? Can you name one thing today that quietly kept you alive — even if it seemed insignificant?