It’s late afternoon, that magical time when the sun starts flirting with the idea of setting, and I’m counting down the final hour of the workday like a kid waiting for recess. I’m at my desk, bathed in golden light, practically glowing like I’ve been blessed by some productivity goddess. The sunlight dances across my keyboard, pirouettes on my monitor, and gently warms my hand like a soft whisper saying, “You’ve almost made it.”

A slight turn of my head to the right, and there it is,  my garden, stretching out beyond the window like a peaceful postcard. The old apple tree stands proud, showing off its three shades of leaves like it’s trying on outfits for autumn. It’s the end of August, and summer is slowly packing its bags. Soon, the rain will return, and the sun will get lazy, no longer showing up to warm my soul after a long day.

This week? Meh. Flat. Less sparkly than the last. A gentle nudge from Lyme, reminding me it’s still hanging around like an unwanted guest who doesn’t know when to leave. Some days, I just want to crawl into a cave, shut the world out, and cry until everything feels okay again.

But then, these warm summer days. They whisper, “Not yet.” They tempt me to walk the dog, to stretch my legs for 8 kilometers just to earn a scoop of ice cream that tastes like victory. They remind me that life isn’t supposed to feel like this forever. That healing is slow, but it’s coming. That I’m stronger than I feel.

And I believe it. I have to. Because deep down, I know: I can beat this.