The spring finally came, and I already feel like I take the sun for granted. I let myself sleep in. I look out the window a little less.
It’s the same sun I've spent months chasing — the one that cracked through the sky and pulled me out of the fog on that first blue-sky day, and I almost cried. I used to rise to meet the sun. Now it waits for me, and I barely notice. How long did it take? A week? Two? When did it became the default? The hopeful weight flattened out. It's quiet. Already, the thankfulness slips away. I was aching for it, begging for light, searching for a glimpse in the brief five-minute span at nine AM on a winter weekday. Now, I don’t reach for it. I know it’ll be there. Reliable.
Did the abundance make me ungrateful?
Or is this what it means to feel safe — to stop begging and start believing? Maybe I’m just resting, finally warm.













