November 20th. One whole year. One year of flowers from poop. One year since I was trembling in that corner, trembling on the floor, trembling for weeks to come. One year since I began writing. One year since I started believing that the words in my head were worthy enough to spill out. One year of strength. One year of feeling so weak. One full year of growth that I never asked for.
We can count the days. Count the days after we’ve lost somebody, count the days that we’ve been with somebody, count the days since we’ve looked down a barrel of a gun someone was aiming at us. We can count all day, but eventually, no matter how much time has passed, we remember. We move on, we let go, and we remember. The sum of all our happenstances, they make us who we are. So in the end, do the days we count really even matter? Do we ever really forget?
Thankfulness. It’s a challenge when we didn’t ask to be the ones who are “strong enough to handle it.” We didn’t ask for this.
But we’re still here aren’t we? You’re reading this, and I’m done trembling. All that’s left is a story, another day of pushing forward, another battle scar stitched up on our hearts forever.
So we can count, we can ignore it, but we can never forget. We rise up, again and again. Scar after scar, trauma after trauma, loss after loss, we rise.