It’s Sunday morning. The kind of morning that feels suspiciously calm, like life forgot about me for a few hours.

The routine is done, kids fed, cat fed, dog emotionall offended but technically fine, kitchen looking like no crime was committed here. I sink into the garden sofa and hold my reward: a cappuccino with layers so perfect they look like Saturn’s rings, coffee, milk, foam, orbiting each other in quiet harmony, like someone finally figured life out in a cup.

I don’t drink coffee every day. I’m not that stable. But when I do, it’s an event. A ceremony. A small, creamy rebellion against chaos.

The sun is out, doing its spring thing, gently convincing the world to try again. Birds are performing what I can only assume is their morning opera, and I sit here, sipping slowly, breathing, existing. Not planning, not fixing, not solving. Just… here.

And honestly? It feels like I’ve won the lottery.

No flashing lights, just this quiet, golden moment where nothing hurts and nobody is asking me where their socks are.

Yesterday was… a lot. The kind of day where you accidentally live three lives before dinner. Morning shopping (why is there always one thing you forget and only remember at home?), one kid sent off on a train adventure to a big city like a slightly underprepared adult, the other dragged along on a long walk with the sausage dog, who, for the record, has the stamina of a marathon runner and the legs of a teaspoon.

By afternoon, the house finally exhaled. Everyone disappeared into their chosen caves, rooms, couches, screens. I surrendered to Netflix, that soft, judgment-free void. I don’t even remember what I watched, which feels right. It did its job: I was unconscious in record time at 21 o’clock.

I woke up around 23:00, did my bedtime routine like a slightly confused ghost, and took my nightly companion, progesterone. Now, technically, I’m supposed to cut the pill in half, as last month when I tied the full dose, next day anxiety came to visit me. But standing there, half asleep, I made an executive decision: 100 mg won’t kill me. Probably. Let’s live dangerously.

Then I gathered the sausage dog, who believes personal space is a myth, and we all piled into bed. A cozy, slightly overcrowded sleep situation. No complaints.

And today? I woke up late. Refreshed. Reborn. Slightly attacked by a dog who had already decided the day had started an hour ago.

So here I am. One hour later. Coffee in hand. Soul intact.

Of course, in the back of my mind, there’s a gentle whisper of responsibility. I should probably finish what I started yesterday, cleaning the inside of my car. The outside is shining like it belongs in a commercial. The inside looks like a documentary about survival.

We’ll see.

For now, I sit here in the sun, letting it warm my face, listening to the birds and my own thoughts finally speaking at a normal volume.

I love these days. The quiet ones. The ones that don’t try too hard.

Because even if life isn’t perfect, and let’s be honest, when is it ever?, this feels like enough. More than enough.

Last year is long gone.

And somehow, so is that version of me.

This one?

She’s back. And she brought coffee.