The Courage of Showing Up

I used to think healing had a finish line. That one day I'd wake up and the

weight would just be gone. But sitting in that corner café every Tuesday morning,

watching the barista draw hearts in foam, I realized healing isn't a destination. It's the ritual

itself. She always remembered my order. Oat milk latte, extra hot.

For months, I'd nod my thanks and retreat to my table by the window, journaling through

the grief of losing my mom. The café became my anchor when everything else felt like quicksand.

One morning, she slid into the chair across from me. No words,

just sat there sketching on a napkin while I wrote. It became our thing. Her drawings,