The Day I Stop Counting

Maybe healing starts

the day I stop counting.

Stop counting mistakes.

Stop counting losses.

Stop counting the people

who left.

Stop keeping score

against myself.

Because I’ve spent years

measuring my life

by what went wrong.

The doors that closed.

The chances I wasted.

The versions of me

that didn’t survive

the way I thought they would.

And somehow

the good things

never seem to count the same.

The mornings I got up anyway.

The nights I made it through.

The times I wanted to quit

but didn’t.

Those victories

always felt too small

to keep.

But maybe

I’ve been looking

at the wrong ledger.

Maybe survival

deserves a tally too.

Maybe every day

I stayed

when it would’ve been easier

to disappear into myself

should count for something.

Maybe every wound

I carried

without letting it make me cruel

should count.

Maybe every time

I chose tomorrow

without knowing

what it would bring

should count.

Because if I measure my life

only by what I lost,

I’ll never see

everything I kept.

And despite it all—

I kept going.

I kept hoping.

I kept finding reasons

to stay

even when I couldn’t name them.

Maybe that’s the story.

Not what broke me.

Not what left.

But what remained.

And the day I stop counting

everything I’ve lost

might be the day

I finally see

how much I’ve survived.