A Wavering Heart

Even though morning should have arrived,
within me, the night had not ended.

Light is streaming in through the gap in the curtains.
Morning has indeed arrived.
The world is spinning on, just as it always has.

And yet—

Deep inside my chest,
it remains sunk at the bottom of heavy water, unable to rise.



I open my eyes.
The ceiling is the same color as it was yesterday.

But my body won't move.

Or rather than not moving,
every time I try to move, invisible weights wrap around my limbs.

I have to get up.
I have to get up.

The more I think that,
the deeper my body sinks into the bedding.

It is as if between my heart and my body,
a thin rift has opened up.



I haven't done anything, yet I am exhausted.

No one is blaming me, yet
I feel like I am being blamed constantly.

Inside my head,
an invisible voice repeats over and over.

“You haven't finished yet.”
“You need to do more.”
“Why can't you even do this...”

Even though it is a quiet room,
inside me, it is as crowded as a rush-hour train with words of blame.

There is no place to escape.



I open my smartphone, then close it.
I have no desire to do anything.

I cannot reach out for the things I used to love.

Only memories of when I was happy
feel as distant as a landscape seen through glass.

“I used to laugh so much back then.”

That fact
chips away at who I am now, making me even smaller.



But.

If you ask if I was truly in the darkness the whole time,
—that wasn't quite the case.

One day.

When I wrapped both hands around a teacup,
warmth slowly returned to my fingertips.

In that moment,
for just a fleeting instant.

“Ah... it's warm.”

I was able to think that.

Just that.

Even though it was just that,
I felt like a thin crack had formed in the ice deep within my chest.



When you are in the midst of depression,
recovery does not appear as a dramatic event.

A day where you suddenly feel better, like a bolt of lightning, never comes.

What comes instead is
a small change that you might almost overlook.
• A night where you slept just a little bit
• A morning where you ate just a little bit
• A moment where you breathed in the outside air just a little bit

That is a very weak light.

But.

In the darkness,
that “weakness” is exactly what becomes a reliable lamp.



I, too, thought many times.

Maybe I won't ever be able to go back.
Maybe I will be here like this forever.

—I thought that.

(You, too, might perhaps be thinking that right now.)

But you know.

The heart is not like a broken machine
that suddenly makes a “full recovery” one day.

Instead.

Like a frozen lake heading toward spring,
little by little, little by little, it loosens.

At a speed you truly won't even notice,
it unravels from the inside.



If your heart is wavering right now,

you don't have to force yourself to recover.
You don't have to rush to get better.

The “just a little bit” you managed today,
please, I hope you don't overlook it.

You were able to get up.
You were able to breathe.
You were able to read this far.

That is already
proof that you are properly picking up a light in the darkness.



Without you noticing.

Truly, without you noticing.

At your feet,
the outline of morning is already beginning to stretch faintly.

It doesn't have to be perfect light.

It doesn't have to be dazzling hope.

First of all,
“It's a little easier to breathe.”

Once that sensation returns.

—that is the entrance to recovery.

To you, who have come this far, to the very end.

It is okay for your heart to waver.
Wavering is proof that you haven't broken yet.

And.

No matter how long the night is,
morning will always come, following its proper order.

It is okay to be slow.
Truly, it is okay to be slow.

May a soft light
shine into your heart. 🌅