It's Been Four Weeks and This Is Where I Am.
They say recovery isn't linear.
I'm learning that firsthand.
I can be deeply grateful and deeply afraid.
I can feel joy and sadness in the same breath.
Both are true.
Neither cancels the other out.
So today, I'm naming it - side by side.
What I'm Feeling Grateful For
(and yes, there is so much)
I feel grateful to be home - in my own bed, in my own space, surrounded by familiarity and comfort.
I feel happy that I'm getting better, even if it's slow, even if it's not obvious every day.
I feel encouraged by small signs of progress - tiny shifts that remind me my body is working hard behind the scenes.
I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for my people - truly the best friends in the world, holding me up in ways I'll never forget.
I feel deep appreciation for the healthcare I received - the doctors, nurses, PSWs, therapists…every single person in my care showed up with skill, compassion, and humanity.
And above all, I feel immense love and gratitude for my daughter - her dedication, her presence, her strength, her unwavering care. There are no words big enough for that kind of love.
These truths anchor me.
What I'm Also Feeling (because honesty matters)
I feel fear of the unknown - wondering what recovery will look like, how long it will take, and what my body is still processing.
I feel sadness - grief for how suddenly life changed, for the things I can't do yet, for the version of me that moved more freely.
I feel concern that I'm not progressing fast enough - that quiet, nagging worry that whispers, Shouldn't I be further along by now?
I do see progress.
I just don't see it at the pace I want.
And that's hard.
Holding Both Without Losing Myself
Here's what I'm learning and reminding myself daily:
You can feel fear and still be hopeful.
You can feel discouraged and still be healing.
You can question the timeline and trust the process.
The doctors tell me I will get better - even when my eyes can't yet see what they see.
So I'm practicing listening to their confidence when my own wavers.
I'm choosing to lean toward the good, without shaming myself for the heavy moments.
I'm choosing to surround myself with good people, good energy, and steady encouragement.
I'm choosing to persevere, even when patience is tested.
Recovery is not a race.
It's a relationship - with my body, my mind, and my heart.
And today, I'm still moving forward.
Slowly. Gently. Honestly.
That counts.
If You're Reading This and Nodding Along
Maybe your "two columns" don't look like mine.
Maybe yours are about grief and gratitude, exhaustion and hope, fear and faith, waiting and trusting.
But the practice is the same.
Try naming both.
Let the good have a voice without silencing the hard.
Acknowledge what you're grateful for - even the smallest wins.
Be honest about what scares you, without letting it run the show.
Surround yourself with people who remind you who you are when you forget.
And when progress feels slow, trust the voices that see your healing before you do.
You don't have to choose between being hopeful and being human.
You're allowed to be both.
Today, if all you do is keep going - gently, imperfectly, with both columns intact - that is more than enough.
Lizzie xo