Looking Up

Day 184 – May 26, 2026

Something strange has been happening lately. I keep catching myself thinking about things that aren’t me. I know. Shocking. Because for a while there my life became very small. Not physically. Emotionally.

When you’re surviving something, your world contracts. It has to. The mind becomes obsessed with triage. What hurts? What needs attention? What’s the threat? What’s the next step? What’s the thing I forgot to do because my nervous system was busy reenacting a disaster movie?

It’s exhausting. Necessary, sometimes. But exhausting.

And lately I’ve noticed little cracks appearing in that tunnel vision. Not bad cracks. Good ones. The kind that let light in. The kind that let curiosity back in. Because I’ve started noticing things again. Noticing people. Noticing neighborhoods. Noticing conversations happening at nearby tables. Noticing flowers. Noticing weird signs. Noticing the woman carrying entirely too many grocery bags and somehow making it work. Noticing the old man who waves at literally everyone.

Noticing life.

That sounds small until you’ve spent enough time trapped inside your own head. Then it’s enormous. Because I think one of the first signs of healing is curiosity returning. Not happiness. Not peace. Curiosity. The desire to look outward again. To wonder. To observe. To become interested in the world beyond your own survival.

I trust curiosity.

More than optimism, honestly. Optimism can disappear. Curiosity sticks around. Even during terrible chapters, there was always some part of me asking questions. Still observing. Still collecting little details. Still trying to understand people. Still finding things beautiful.

That’s probably why I became a writer in the first place. Not because I had something to say. Because I couldn’t stop paying attention. And lately it feels like that part of me is stretching again. Waking up. Looking around. Remembering that life is not only made up of the things that happen to us.

It’s also made up of the things we notice.

That feels important. Because while survival might save your life, curiosity is often what gives it back.

Roger, naturally, has never struggled with this. Every walk is an expedition. Every smell is breaking news. Every squirrel is a developing story. Every bush deserves investigative journalism. He remains deeply committed to the idea that the world is endlessly interesting.

Honestly? He’s onto something.

Maybe that’s the real shift happening. Not that the storm is over. Just that I’m finally looking beyond it.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And me, remembering that the world is still out there, waiting to be noticed.