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.
Through the Fog 