In the quiet of the morning, there's a moment that feels suspended in time.
It's when you first wake up and find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed. The stress of the upcoming day weighs heavily on you, and perhaps your body aches from an awkward sleeping position.
In those first few minutes of consciousness, you try to piece together your scattered thoughts to summon the energy and clarity for the day ahead.
You massage the sore spots that nagged you through the night, and you stretch your limbs, rolling your head from side to side, seeking some small comfort in the movement. It's a ritual of sorts, a way to brace yourself for what's to come.
"I really need to get up and face the day," you tell yourself, even as you struggle to remember what day it is. But this daily awakening carries a heavier burden than just the dread of routine or the discomfort of a stiff neck. It's like emerging from one nightmare into the lingering shadows of another, far more profound one—the loss of my father.
Each morning is a stark reminder of that reality. As I sit there, trying to gather my thoughts, I'm also grappling with the weight of what has transpired. It's been three years filled with unfinished goals, fears, and an unsettling acceptance of mediocrity. I've become stifled, trapped in a web of complacency that seems to mirror my physical attempts to stretch out the kinks and ease the pain.
It's a painful awakening, both physically and emotionally. Each stretch, each moment spent massaging away the discomfort, is a metaphor for the deeper, more challenging process of coming to terms with my loss and the person I've become in its wake.
It's a daily confrontation with grief and self-reflection, a continual effort to stretch beyond the confines of my current existence and the limitations I've imposed on myself. And in the quiet of the morning, on the edge of my bed, the journey begins again.