Better

Today, I choose the quiet work of getting better.

Yesterday’s weight is real, but it isn’t a verdict. It’s a teacher—soft-spoken, persistent—leaving notes in the margins: try again, breathe deeper, be kinder. I carry those notes into morning like pockets full of seeds. With each small act—one honest word, one brave boundary, one quiet mercy—I plant what I hope to harvest later.


If the sky is gray, I make my own light. If the wind is sharp, I turn my face and keep walking. Progress doesn’t thunder; it whispers. It’s the steady pulse under ordinary hours, the way frost yields to sun, the way a river learns its bend by touching the same stones until they smooth.


Today will be better than yesterday because I’ll choose a step, a breath, a better choice. And tomorrow will be better than today because I’ll keep going—learning, forgiving, adjusting the course by inches. This is how mountains move: one faithful inch at a time.


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