A Morning After Rain

A quiet sigh, a sky rinsed clean, and a softness returning.

There’s something about the morning after.
After the storm.
After the noise.
After the weight of a day that asked too much.

Today the light arrived slowly, pale and unsure.
Not with grand promises, but with gentleness.
The kind that doesn’t need to be seen to be believed.

Outside, the garden was still wet with memory —
leaves bowed, puddles gathered like thoughts,
lavender heavy but still holding its shape.

Inside, the kettle murmured.
I wrapped my hands around a warm mug and let the steam meet my face like a blessing.
No plans. Just breath. Just being.

There’s a hush to these mornings.
The world isn’t asking anything yet.
The to-do list hasn’t crept in.
And maybe for a little while, I can meet the day gently —
not with effort, but with presence.

These are the hours when something begins to settle.
The ache unclenches.
The thoughts slow down.
The body remembers it’s allowed to rest.

I used to think recovery had to look like action.
Like getting back to it, proving resilience.
But now I know:
Sometimes healing is found in stillness.
In silence.
In letting a single birdcall break the quiet
and letting it be enough.

With gentleness,

Sam