For the mornings you can’t see a way forward

For the days you can’t see past the weight you’re carrying — and the moment you finally set it down.

For the mornings that feel heavier than the night — proof you’re still here, and one small way back into yourself.

Change is a thief.
And a gift.

It breaks in without knocking.
Shakes you awake.
Takes what you swore you couldn’t live without—
only to hand you something you didn’t even know you needed.

I know you’re tired.
Bone-tired.

Of the job you dread.
Of the person who says they love you but never makes you feel it.
Of the rent due date sprinting toward you faster than your paycheck ever will.
Of being the last one picked.
The last one wanted.
The last one worth showing up for.
Of sitting in meetings biting your tongue —
knowing you’re right,
knowing you could fix it,
and knowing it doesn’t matter because no one’s listening anyway.

I’ve been there.

I’ve skipped meals and told myself I just wasn’t hungry.
I’ve stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering if anyone would notice if I disappeared.
I’ve fallen asleep to Carry the Zero on repeat—
that opening guitar like an exhale after you’ve held your breath too long,
the kind of sound that sees you in your emptiness.
I did the math of my own life and realized how much of myself I’d already given away.
How many days I’d shaved down until there was almost nothing left.

It’s not impossible.
You just can’t see it yet.

And the thing I learned — the thing that cracked the ice under my feet —
wasn’t some grand revelation.
It was one small, almost stupid step.
But it changed everything.

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The rest of this isn’t for scrolling. It’s the part where I give you one small thing you can do this morning to change the way tomorrow feels.
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