One Day

I wake up and immediately reach for my phone. Today, I tell myself, I'll be the kind of person who meditates instead of scrolling.

I brush my teeth and stare at my reflection. One day, I think, I'll recognize the person looking back at me.

I make coffee in my small kitchen and notice the morning light. This is enough, I whisper to the steam rising from my mug. This ordinary moment is enough.

I check my bank account and feel my chest tighten. When will I stop buy a house? When will I feel like a real adult? One day, I'll have enough.

I walk to the train and see a man playing violin. I drop a dollar in his case and think, maybe I should have learned an instrument. Maybe it's not too late.

I scroll through Instagram on the train. Everyone else seems to be getting engaged, buying houses, having babies. I close the app and wonder if I'm falling behind or running ahead. One day, I'll be where I should be.

I arrive at work and sit at my desk. Today's the day, I think. I'll work hard, make an impression, get that promotion I've been circling for months.

I open my laptop and stare at my emails. What's the point? I wonder. Why do I bother pretending any of this matters? One day, I'll do what I love.

I finally text my friend back during my break. We talk about nothing and everything, and I remember that connection doesn't require profundity.

I eat lunch alone and watch people hurry past the window. One day, I'll be brave enough to travel solo to all those places I've bookmarked.

I stay late to finish a project and feel simultaneously proud and resentful. This is how you build a career, I remind myself. This is how you build a life.

I walk home through streets I've memorized and think, I should move somewhere new. Somewhere that challenges me. Somewhere that feels like possibility. One day, I'll be out of here.

I stop at the corner market and smile at the owner who knows my name. This is home, I realize. This constellation of small familiarities is home.

I cook dinner for one and lament. I should be sharing meals; building traditions and creating community. One day, I'll have a boisterous dining room.

I eat in comfortable silence and think, I'm learning to be good company for myself. This is not a consolation prize.

I call my mother and listen to her worry about my lack of direction. One day, I promise silently, I'll have answers to her questions.

I hang up and remember that her questions aren't really about me. They're about her own fears of time passing.

I sit on my couch and consider going out. I should be networking, playing bar trivia, making memories I'll look back on fondly. One day, I'll go alone to that wine bar across the street.

I make a cup of tea and put on music. This is also a way to spend an evening. This quiet is also a choice.

I open a book I've been meaning to read for months. Tonight, I'll finally become the kind of person who reads consistently.

I check my phone instead and fall into the familiar spiral of comparison and distraction.

I turn off all screens and lie in the dark. Tomorrow will be different, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll be more intentional.

I close my eyes and feel grateful for today exactly as it was. Contradictory, imperfect, beautifully ordinary.

I set my alarm for morning and wonder what I'll accomplish. Will I finally sign up for that music class? Send that cold email? Book that trip?

I pull the covers up and realize I've already accomplished the most important thing: I've lived another day fully awake to its possibilities.

I drift toward sleep thinking about the man with the violin, the light in my kitchen, and the weight of words on a page.

I dream, perhaps, of becoming someone I'm not yet brave enough to be. But I wake up, always, as myself.

And somehow, each morning, that feels like enough to begin again.