Today I am struggling.
There’s a heaviness that sits on my chest like wet stones, pressing me down, whispering that I can’t do anything right. That I am failing everyone around me, and failing myself.
It’s not loud or dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself with a storm. It is quiet, creeping, curling around my thoughts, threading itself into my body, making my limbs feel heavy, my heart tight, my mind taut. Every small misstep—every word I said wrong, every obligation I didn’t meet perfectly—becomes a mountain. And I carry it alone, as if the world’s expectations were my own.
I want to move. I want to act. I want to fix everything. But my body is reluctant, my mind is tangled. Even the simplest tasks feel like too much. And so I sit in it, this spiral of not enough, letting it press against me, letting it remind me that I am human.
And yet, even here, there is a flicker. A quiet, almost imperceptible pulse that refuses to be drowned out. A small reminder that struggling does not erase my worth. That being human means faltering, feeling overwhelmed, and still showing up—if only to breathe through the day.
I remind myself that the people who love me are not keeping score. They are not watching for mistakes. They do not tally my failures the way my mind does. That harsh inner voice, the one whispering that I am falling short, is not truth. It is fear wearing a mask.
So today, I soften. I cradle this struggle instead of fighting it. I let myself feel the weight without letting it define me. I let my chest rise and fall with slow breaths. I let my mind drift into the quiet corners where judgment cannot follow. One small act. One quiet moment. One pause to notice that I am still here. That I am still trying.
And in this gentle noticing, I see a fragile kind of beauty: that even in moments of despair, there is resilience. That even in failure, there is movement. That even in heaviness, there is life.
I allow myself to imagine the light returning—not all at once, not in fireworks, but in subtle ways: the warmth of the sun through the window, the sound of a voice that makes me laugh, the comfort of a quiet evening with a cup of tea, the small victories that I might not notice if I’m too focused on the mountain of “not enough.”
Today I am struggling.
Today I feel like I am failing.
And still, somehow, I am here.
Still, somehow, I am trying.
And that—this fragile, slow, determined trying—is not failure. It is living. It is breathing. It is proof that even in the darkest moments, I am present. I am real. I am enough.
Crow and Flame 