Eggs at the Counter

Last Tuesday, I made eggs.
Not a metaphor, not a wellness milestone.
Just eggs.

Scrambled, hands were shaking too much
for anything more complicated.
Ate them standing at the counter,
sitting felt like too much commitment.

Self-care that day, not the Instagram kind.
Where you feed your body, when your brain
is screaming that nothing matters.
And that you should just go back to bed.

Thought self-care meant having my shit together.
Green smoothies, morning routines, journals.
The whole performance.

Most days I'm just trying to choose the basics
without hating myself for needing them.

Sleep when my body says stop,
not when the world says it's acceptable.

Eat something, anything, when stomach knots.
Old stories about deserving or earning.
Move, not as punishment,
because motion unsticks the static.

Some days that fire is a roaring blaze,
six miles with a heavy pack, feeling invincible.
Some days it's a barely-there ember,
victory is not letting it go dark.

Eating the eggs. Drinking the water.

Some days choosing to eat is an act of defiance.
Some days going to bed feels like giving up.
Though I know it's the opposite.

You don't need to love yourself perfectly.
Just feed yourself. Rest yourself. Move yourself.

Loving yourself enough.

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* peer reflections: not medical or therapy advice. *