Fragile

Recovery isn’t the clean, steady climb people imagine it to be.

It’s not a straight line, and it’s not always inspiring.

Sometimes it’s messy and painful — full of steps backward, relapses of thought, and nights spent questioning whether I’m really getting better or just getting used to the ache.

I’m fragile in recovery.

I wake up some days full of hope, and by nightfall, I’m drowning in doubt again. The smallest thing — a memory, a song, a smell — can pull me back into the dark, and I hate how easily I break. But breaking is part of it. Healing doesn’t mean the cracks disappear; it means learning how to live with them.

People think recovery is about strength, but I’ve learned it’s mostly about endurance — about showing up when your hands are still shaking. About forgiving yourself when you fall apart again, even after promising you wouldn’t.

There’s no finish line here.

No moment where I suddenly become whole again.

There’s just me — fragile, trembling, trying.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe being fragile in recovery means I’m still fighting,

still choosing life,

even when the weight of it threatens to break me.