It is not always bravery
that carries you forward.
Sometimes it's the habit of motion,
the quiet ritual
of standing up
when none is watching.

You do not always need a reason.
Some mornings begin
without promise-
only the slow unfolding
of light on the floor
and the decision
to meet it.

Continuing is not loud.
It does not shout triumph.
It does not beg to be seen.
It lives in the way
you fill the kettle,
return the call,
wipe the counter clean.

There is no map for this,
no applause,
no end credits.
Just the next breath.
The next step.
The next word
spoken into a room
that answers with stillness.

And maybe that is enough-
not to rise in glory,
but to remain,
to move,
to try,
again and again,
without knowing why,
except that something inside you
refuses to stop.

That too,
is a kind of art.