Between Bruises & Blooms

Some mornings joy isn’t loud.

It isn’t confetti or miracles or the kind of happiness people photograph.

Sometimes it’s cold coffee reheated twice.

Tiny footsteps before the sun remembers the sky.

A sleepy child pressing cereal into your hand like they’ve discovered treasure.

The dog waiting at the door.

The cat stealing your chair.

The quiet realization that you survived another night.

So I pour hope into an ordinary bowl, sprinkle in laughter, a pinch of exhaustion, and enough love to carry me until tomorrow.

It may not look like much.

But this morning,

a bowl of joy for breakfast was enough.