You're not a moment Frozen in Time

The first thing I see in the morning when I wake up is the ceiling fan spinning above me. I lay in bed for a few minutes watching it as the morning sun creeps in through the blinds. For the first time in my life, there is no heavy dread sitting on my chest when I wake up. The crushing weight that used to make even breathing feel like an impossible task is gone. I stay curled up in the blankets for just a few minutes while the fan blows cool air around and just breathe before choosing to get out of bed and prepare for the rest of the day. This is the first win. My own private success that occurs before the kids even start to stir.

I stretch, feeling the wonderful tension of muscles that are ready to carry me through the day, and put on a sports bra and leggings to prepare for my morning workout. I always tend to pause for just a minute to look down at my arms. The skin there is clear and whole now. I see only strength now where there used to be a desperate need to escape the pain I felt inside.

Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror feels much different now than it used to. The sad little girl who used to clumsily stagger around trying to carry all that weight has gotten strong enough to hold it with balance and even set it down and sort it out in her own time. She knows she can carry it but doesn't have to anymore.

I see a woman with light in her eyes. I see a woman who knows she belongs in this house, in this body, and in this life. I see the fine lines of a smile that have been etched there permanently, and I'm not even upset about it. I earned them. I'm here... and I am vibrantly and beautifully alive.

The house is peaceful in the morning. After working out, I use this time to think and plan my day with the kids. I open up the kitchen blinds and tidy up any mess that has accumulated since cleaning up after dinner last night and feel a surge of genuine pride. I'm the person who maintains the home and creates a safe space for the people I love most. These days, I'm not rushing to disappear or waiting for the sun to go down so I can go back into my room and hide away from the world. I'm looking at the clock, eager for the kids to wake up.

I have a purpose that's grounded in the tiny people who are about to tip toe down the hallway. I am the heart of the home now, a steady presence instead of a flickering ghost.

When they wake up and see me, their little eyes light up. They don't hesitate or look at me with worry, wondering which version of their mama they'll find today. They know I'm here and solid.

I watch them eat their breakfast and I adore every minute of it. I used to think the whole world would be better off without me, that my sadness would eventually infect everyone like a disease. But, for my kids, my recovery is their foundation. I chose to stay and fight for my worth. They have a mama who laughs at their jokes and dances with them in the kitchen. I'm someone they admire just as much as I do them. I see it in the way they mimic me or ask my opinion on their drawings.

My husband joins us and he always rubs the small of my back as he passes before planting a kiss on my forehead. The tension of having to check on me has melted away, he knows I'm ok. Finally. He doesn't adore me out of obligation or pity... he just does it out of pure love. We are partners in the truest sense. He sees my self-esteem blooming like a flower in the sun and he waters it and cherishes it like no one ever has. When I look at him, I feel a deep sense of belonging. I'm a wife who is loved and a woman who loves herself enough to let him in.

For so long, I measured my worth by what I could produce or how little space I took up in the world. I thought I had to be perfect to even be allowed to exist. That was a lie. My worth isn't a prize to be won. I'm valuable because I am a living and breathing part of this universe.

I have survived the deepest trenches of depression and have come out on the other side with a capacity of joy that knows no bounds. Every breath I take without pain is a miracle and every song I sing while folding laundry or doing the dishes is a battle I'm winning that I once thought was already lost.

The urge to hurt myself is just a memory of a person I used to know. My hands that once sliced into my skin again and again, not thinking about any of the consequences of my actions, are finally steady and in control. They belong to a woman who knows she's enough.

I'm happy to be me. I like my mind and the way I navigate the world. This self-acceptance is the quietest and most profound victory of all. Now that I start my day with a sense of purpose, the small frustrations don't derail me anymore. I'm no longer a glass vase in constant fear of shattering. I handle things as they come much more calmly than ever before.

Watching my family at the dinner table is one of my favorite parts of the day. A beautiful and chaotic mess of voices and clinking silverware that I love taking in. This is what I almost gave up... the life I thought I didn't deserve. I would have missed my husband's face as he laughed at my son's story. My babies faces... smiling, safe, and happy. I would have missed out on bedtime stories and nighttime braids and our "good morning" song that my eight-year-old still asks for every morning. I can't even imagine it. It's too tragic.

When I finally get back into bed at night, I don't feel the exhaustion of a person who has been performing. I feel peaceful and sleepy from a life well lived. I close my eyes, and I'm not afraid of what tomorrow will bring. I'm excited for the sun to come back up so I can do it all over again. I'm exactly where I want to be now. The victory isn't that I survived the dark, it's that I learned to love the light.