Summer Sun

The summer sun

never asks permission.

It spills across the fields,

warms cracked sidewalks,

finds its way

through half-open curtains

and into rooms

that forgot what light

felt like.

It doesn’t rush.

It simply arrives.

Steady.

Certain.

The kind of certainty

I’ve spent years

looking for

in people.

I used to think

healing would feel dramatic.

Like lightning.

Like fireworks.

But maybe

it looks more

like summer.

Slow mornings.

Warm air.

The smell of fresh-cut grass.

A breeze that reminds you

the world keeps turning

whether you’re ready or not.

There is something comforting

about a season

that doesn’t ask you

to become anyone else.

It just invites you

outside.

To breathe a little deeper.

To remember

that not everything beautiful

has to fight

to exist.

So I stand there

beneath the summer sun,

letting it rest

on all the parts of me

that spent too long

hidden in the shade.

And for one quiet moment,

I stop searching

for what comes next.

Because this warmth,

this breath,

this ordinary afternoon—

is enough.

Maybe happiness

isn’t always something

you chase.

Maybe sometimes

it simply finds you

standing still

beneath the summer sun.