The little things

It’s not the grand disasters that break me. It’s the toothbrush waiting in the cup, the unanswered text, the dirty dish that stares like an accusation. The world thinks survival is in the big moments— the hospital visits, the funerals, the heartbreaks. But my battlefield is in the hallway, where laundry piles like fallen soldiers I cannot lift. Depression is a thief that steals the strength to turn a doorknob. Trauma is a ghost that whispers, why even bother? So I sit, paralyzed by crumbs on the floor, ashamed that I cannot rise for things that seem so small. But the little things aren’t little when you’re carrying a history like mine. They become mountains hidden in the dust, avalanches disguised as ordinary tasks. And maybe one day, I’ll climb again. But today, I honor the war it takes just to breathe, just to be.