Most mornings begin the same.

I wake up in pain.

Maybe that’s not what you expected to hear…
but it’s my reality right now.

The pain comes from surgery…
from healing…
from a body still finding its way back.

And still

I get up.

Because I’ve decided…

to become stronger
so I can finally do the things
I’ve wanted to do for decades.

And then…
my day begins.

My routine now is both physical and mental
a quiet check-in with myself
to see how I’m really doing.

Stretching and exercise are a must.

Every day.

This is how I start to understand
what my day will be like.

I begin to understand
what my body will allow.

I also learn
what it needs.

If the sun is out
and the air is warm,
being outside is a must.

I’m drawn to it—

to the calm,
to the light,
to Mother Nature.

And if the day is cold or rainy,
I turn inward.

That’s when I write…
journal…
or lose myself in my mixed media art.

My thoughts during the day
are always busy.

I listen to music…
audiobooks…
sometimes a podcast.

There’s always something playing
something that keeps my mind engaged.

If it’s an errand day,
I map it out in a circle,
starting and ending at home
always after my routine
of stretching and exercise.

Lists are a must.

They help everything move more smoothly…
and keep me grounded.

I’m usually out
no more than three to four hours
before I return home
to eat,
to rest,
to reset.

My late afternoons
are reserved for that

resting both physically and mentally.

Those quiet moments…
they’re not optional anymore.

They’re a necessity in my life.

Depending on the season,
I sit and watch the birds
gather at their feeders.

I chuckle softly
watching the squirrels.

Hanging upside down,
swinging with their tails,
doing everything they can
to reach their food.

Writing has found its way
into my days
in more ways than I ever expected.

I start my mornings
with a written calendar.

I use it not just
to see what needs to be done.

I also use it
to understand
what I’m capable of that day.

It holds more than appointments…

it holds how my days feel, too.

Journaling has become part of my life
in different forms,
at different moments.

Some pages hold the harder days…

some hold progress…

and some hold quiet achievements
I’ve learned to recognize.

There are times I create…

art journals,
pieces in progress…
spaces that feel like mine.

The writing reaches beyond me.

It’s my manuscript.

It’s my way of helping others understand
what it’s like to live in my world.

Somewhere along the way,
I’ve come to realize…

that writing isn’t just something I do.

It’s something that has helped my mind
work again…
heal…
and grow.

In many ways,
that quiet rebuilding of confidence
became part of learning to trust myself again.

This is what my days look like now.

Slower…

more aware…

and filled with things
that matter in ways
I didn’t understand before.

I’m not trying to return
to who I was anymore.

I’m learning to live…

right here…

as the person I’m becoming.

Some of the quietest moments of healing
have come while simply walking
and noticing the world around me again.

I reflected more on that in
A Sense of Belonging After Stroke: Walking My Way Back.