Cautious but hopeful relief creeps in as I wake up and something is different. Something feels different. My stomach, once nauseated…agonized…churning, now calm. My head, once crushed…twisted…melted, now at ease.
Shy but optimistic hesitation tiptoes in as I complete my morning routines with a clear head. Absent of pain. I hold my breath a bit, wondering expectantly if this break in the storm will continue.
Grateful and unapologizing elation washes over me as I slowly start to realize, as the day moves along, that this may just be a good day. That this may just be a day that I feel a little more like myself.
Unconcerned and unshackled acceptance stakes its place in my brain. The weight of uncertainty has lifted. Chalk drawings of butterflies and cats fill my patio. Gym shoes hit pavement surrounded by the birds and trees and sky. Still dormant spring grass crunches under my feet as I inspect the reborn life of daffodils breaking through the ground and reaching for the sun. Bike wheels roll down the road, with the chatter of my little one in my ears. The merry-go-round goes round and the zip line zips as the laughter of my children fills the evening air. Bedtime routines return with a little girl on my lap and Ramona’s words echoing off the walls of the creamy purple room. Children are lulled to sleep by soft melodies from their mama’s voice.
Pure and unbridled amazement fills my soul as a second day comes and goes without incident. More walks. More playgrounds. More gardens. More conversations. More books. More singing. More me being…me.
The surprise and wonderment from the week’s respite soon recedes into the everyday and ordinary. The trauma of the painful past fades into the background, but never truly surrenders control…ever threatening to return. But we all move on with life. For as long as we can.