The Morning Sun

The Morning Sun Has Just Begun

The morning sun has just begun,

and I am still here to meet it.

Not whole, not empty—

Just present enough to stand in its light

and let it find me where I am.

I don’t ask it to fix anything.

I don’t ask it to stay.

I only ask that it touches what remains

and reminds me I am not finished.

There are days I wake carrying yesterday’s weight, the kind that settles into the bones

and whispers that rest is surrender.

But the light never agrees with that voice.

It arrives anyway, quiet, certain, unafraid of the dark it replaces.

I step into it slowly.

Not to be seen—but to feel warm again.

Somewhere between breath and thought,

I remember that beginnings don’t announce themselves. They don’t knock.

They simply happen, like light slipping across the floor while the world is still deciding what it will be.

The morning sun has just begun,

and with it, permission.

Permission to try again without explanation. To carry what I can and set the rest down without guilt.

If this day takes from me, I will let it. If it gives,

I will receive without fear.

I have learned this much:

strength is not standing tall every day—

it is standing at all when the light returns

and choosing to face it instead of turning away.

The morning sun has just begun.

So have I.