I’m Grateful

 I don’t always notice my blessings. Some days I complain without even hearing myself—like breathing out a truth I’ve rehearsed too long. Life feels heavy, and I move through it half-present, as if the edges of reality have blurred just enough to let me slip away.

And if I’m being honest, disappearing is familiar. It’s a skill I learned young, long before I knew what to call it. Dissociation, drifting, zoning out—whatever word you choose, it’s the same sensation: I vanish while the world continues on, steady and unbothered.

But then something unexpected happens. A moment pierces the moment. Maybe it’s sunlight hitting my face just right or  laughter I didn’t plan to enjoy.

And I gasp. It’s small, almost private—like my soul startled me by returning.

I gasp, and then I grasp. I reach for the world, for myself, for the blessing I almost missed.

Gratitude, for me, is not a polished habit.

It’s not journaling in perfect handwriting or whispering thanks before bed.

It’s more like waking up mid-sentence in my own life, looking around, and realizing the world is… real.

And I am blessed.

Not because everything is easy or because I never struggle.

But because I get these moments—moments where awareness fits on me like a shirt I wasn’t sure still belonged to me.

I’m blessed by the small things I usually overlook:

• A cup of coffee warm against my palms

   • A memory that didn’t break me

• A heartbeat that keeps choosing me

• A laugh that doesn’t sound like survival

• A friend’s voice saying, “I’m still here,” even when I don’t feel like I am  for myself 

Gratitude doesn’t erase the hard parts. It doesn’t silence the complaints or force me into some false cheerfulness. If anything, it does the opposite—it brings me closer to truth.

Because when I reflect, when I actually stop and let myself feel what is real, something softens. And I remember that being alive is not just enduring—it’s receiving.

Blessings don’t always shout, sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they come disguised as ordinary moments I would’ve missed if I hadn’t come back to myself in time.

Sometimes they arrive right after the gasp—when I blink and realize the ground beneath my feet is solid.

Gosh yes, I still complain. I ache. I drift and disappear. 

But I also return. And every time I do, the world meets me with something worth holding onto. And that—that is a wonderful blessing, the chance to gasp, to grasp, and to begin again.