Still, I Rise with Hope

I’m working hard to make ends meet, but I’m happy. Not the kind of happiness that’s always smiling or easy to recognize, but the kind that lives quietly in the in-between. In the way I hold on. In the way I love. In the small victories—like paying a bill on time or making dinner stretch just a little longer. The world may not see the strength in that, but I do. It’s the kind of happiness that’s carved from struggle and softened by gratitude.

I’m sad, but I’m kind. The sadness doesn’t define me—it just walks beside me. It has taught me compassion, depth, patience. I know what it feels like to carry invisible weight, so I try to be gentle—with others and with myself. Even when my heart is heavy, my hands remain open. I choose kindness, not because it’s easy, but because it’s who I am.

I’m short, but I’m healthy, yeah. And that’s more than enough. I’ve learned to honor my body—not for how it looks, but for how it shows up for me, every day, even under pressure. It carries me through stress, caretaking, uncertainty, and love. My size doesn’t limit the size of my heart or the power in my presence.

I’m scared, but I’m grounded. Life has shaken me—more than once. And there are still days when the fear creeps in: fear for the future, for him, for us. But I breathe. I root myself in what I know is true—that I’ve made it through before, and I’ll do it again. Fear doesn’t have to mean weakness. Sometimes it just means I’m human.

I’m sane, but I’m overwhelmed. The chaos of caregiving, of carrying both love and loss, of being the one who holds everything together—it’s a lot. I won’t pretend otherwise. But sanity isn’t perfection. It’s presence. It’s showing up anyway. It’s crying in the car, then wiping your face and going back inside with love in your eyes.

I’m lost, but I’m hopeful. This road wasn’t the one I planned. It’s twisted and lonely and often silent where I wish there was connection. But I still believe in beauty. In healing. In unexpected joy. Even when I feel like I’ve lost my way, I hold on to the idea that something good is still ahead—that the story isn’t over.

And what it all comes down to is that everything’s gonna be fine. Not perfect. Not easy. But fine—like a quiet sunrise, or a gentle hand on your back when you didn’t know you needed it. I don’t have all the answers, but I have love. I have resilience. I have the will to keep going.

And right now, that’s more than enough.