Most days, I don’t remember.
They blur together, folding into a rhythm I moved through without much thought… morning alarms, text messages, grocery store runs, dinner plans… moments of joy and pain caught up in the flow of everyday life.
But some days stay.
The ones where everything shifted, or nothing did, but I felt it anyway.
A song playing for the first time, catching me off guard… mid-laugh, mid-tears, or somewhere in between.
There’s something wild about how music marks time in me… like I can always trace it back to the exact moment I first heard it.
A strange, permanent timestamp. A memory hooked to a melody.
I remember the summer I felt infinite.
The one where the world felt like it belonged to me in all its chaos and color.
It was loud and hard and messy and magic.
And it cracked me open in ways I didn’t know I needed.
That summer taught me how to become myself.
I remember Halloween of 2017.
The day I stopped waiting for someone to save me.
The day I realized I could begin again… and so I did.
It took me seven months.
Seven months to soften, to rebuild, to learn what it meant to choose myself every day.
Seven months to remember I was worthy.
And seven years to that day, I married someone who never lets me forget it.
I remember porch light sun and the wind through open car windows.
The first dip into a cold pool at the start of summer. The scent of a new book.
The warmth of a laugh I didn’t know I needed.
The way shadows danced on the wall during slow afternoons.
I remember the way aliveness sometimes sneaks in through the simplest things… not the milestones, but the moments in between.
The ones that asked for nothing.
Most days, I don’t remember.
But the ones that stayed…
They gave me everything.
Reflective Question:
What are the days that stayed with you and why do you think they did?
Still Becoming 