I haven’t cried in a couple of days.
That might not sound like much, but it feels like a quiet victory in a storm that never fully passes. You’ve been eating. Taking your medicine. Yesterday, you even watched a video about ECT. That alone feels like a whisper of progress, a thread of hope I can hold on to. And right now—just for this moment, I’m in a hopeful place.

I know how fragile that hope is. I know too well how fast things can turn. But today, I choose to be grateful for the stillness.

And yet, this morning, the tears returned.
Not because anything changed with you, but because something is about to change for me. In less than a week, I’ll turn 50. A milestone birthday, one you would’ve made special. I know you. You would have planned something big and thoughtful and silly and sweet. You always made sure my birthday felt like my day.

But this year, I don’t want to celebrate.
Not without you. Not without your smile, your energy, your love wrapped around the day like a gift. What is a celebration without the one person who makes life worth celebrating?

So I sit in the tension of it all—hopeful but hurting. Grateful for your small steps forward, grieving what this season has stolen from us.

If you’re reading this and you’re in a quiet moment too, hold it gently. Let yourself rest in it. And if your heart is aching beside your hope like mine is, know you’re not alone.

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