You Never Have to Do Today Again

Life’s been emotionally hard. For a while now, it’s felt like everything is just… heavy. Like I’ve been treading water with bricks tied to my ankles, convincing myself that this is what “coping” looks like… learning to function while drowning. I keep telling myself I’m fine because I’ve grown accustomed to the ache, the same way a body learns to live with chronic pain. It becomes background noise after a while, the kind you almost stop noticing until a day like today comes along and reminds you that the ache was never gone, just quiet. Today didn’t just weigh on me; it pressed its thumb against every bruise I’ve been pretending didn’t hurt. Today was the kind of hard that feels personal, as if the universe had decided to peel back every layer I’ve built to protect myself and whisper, let’s see how strong you really are.

You know those days when you wake up already exhausted, and somehow the air itself feels heavy, like the world is quietly warning you to brace for impact? That was me this morning. The weight was there before I even opened my eyes… a familiar dread that clung to me like humidity. My body ached from battling pneumonia and weeks of restless sleep, the kind where your dreams feel like work and your mind doesn’t know how to stop running. I dragged myself out of bed, half-asleep and already on edge, and the first thing I did was drop my phone. It slipped through my fingers like it was trying to escape me, and when I reached out to catch it, I only made it worse, knocking it into the wall just right, and I heard a crack that made my stomach drop. The sound was sharp and final, the kind that instantly tells you it’s going to be one of those days. I stared at the shattered screen protector like it was an omen, a mirror of my own fragile composure. “I have backups. It’s fine,” I muttered under my breath, pretending calm I didn’t actually feel. But the truth was, it already didn’t feel fine. It felt like the day had decided its tone before I even had a say, and I was just along for the unraveling.

When I went to change it, I sliced my finger on the broken glass, and for a moment, I just stared at the bead of blood forming… so small, so insignificant, and yet it felt like adding straw to a pile I hadn’t realized was already collapsing. The sting was disproportionate to the wound, but that’s how it goes when you’ve been carrying too much for too long; even paper cuts start to feel fatal. I made my way into the kitchen and reached for my favorite cosmic mug. The one perfectly glazed like a swirl of galaxies, deep cobalt on black with hints of red that catch the light like stardust. A reminder that something born from chaos can look so breathtaking. It’s the kind of mug that makes you pause before using it, like you’re holding a fragment of the universe itself. I have several of them, but this one is my favorite, my first one. For years, I kept it tucked away in its box, too afraid to use it, like I could somehow preserve it from the inevitability of being broken. But lately, I’ve been trying to let go of that kind of fear, to remind myself that things are meant to be used, to be lived with… even if they don’t last forever. Still, the irony stung when it caught the edge of the counter just right and a piece of the glaze chipped off, spinning midair before clattering somewhere I couldn’t see. It was such a small break, barely noticeable, but it felt like watching a tiny universe fracture in my hands. I stood there trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just an accident. The moment I let something precious back into my daily life, the world reminds me how easily it can shatter. Still, I filled the mug anyway, running my finger over the exposed part in defiance. And when I took that first sip, trying to ground myself in something as ordinary as caffeine, it slipped again… spilling out and burning across my chest, scalding skin that already felt too thin. The pain was intense but what hurt worse was how fitting it felt… how perfectly symbolic it was that comfort had turned into hurt in a single heartbeat. It felt like the universe was laughing, whispering, see, even the things you love will betray you if you hold them too tightly.

After changing and cleaning up, I was running late, and running late triggers every level of my anxiety. It lights up every anxious nerve in my body like a warning siren. My pulse started racing before I even grabbed my keys, that familiar panic blooming in my chest. There’s something about being behind schedule that makes me feel like the world is closing in, like time itself is mocking me for not having it all together. So I rushed, too fast, my thoughts tripping over themselves as my feet did the same. Halfway down the stairs, I stumbled, catching myself awkwardly but not before the rough edge of the concrete step tore across the back of my leg. The sting was immediate, sharp, and humiliating in a way that only small accidents can be when you’re already on the edge. By the time I limped to my car, the scrape had started to throb, a dull, angry ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. And then I saw a fresh scratch carved into my car door where someone else’s carelessness had left its mark. It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did. It was the final straw in a morning full of tiny undoings. I sank into the driver’s seat and stared at it, that meaningless scratch, through my side mirror until my vision blurred. My breath came too fast and too shallow, my chest tightening as I tried to convince myself I was overreacting. It wasn’t about the scratch. It was about the accumulation, the slow erosion of my patience and my strength. I sat there, forcing a weak laugh through the tears burning behind my eyes, thinking of that cartoon dog in the burning room, coffee cup in hand, insisting this is fine. Only this fire wasn’t funny. This fire was internal and I was both the one sitting in it and the one striking the match, pretending not to notice the smoke.

I thought maybe music could save me, the way it always does when nothing else can. My playlists are a kind of emotional life raft, carrying me through every version of myself I’ve tried to survive. I needed that escape, that small moment where lyrics could say the things I couldn’t. But when I plugged my phone in, the screen flickered, the radio went black, and silence swallowed me whole. It felt cruel, like even the universe was tired of hearing my sad songs. That silence wasn’t just quiet, it was taunting, like a mirror held up to my insides saying, see, even your noise has given up on you. By the time I made it to my therapist’s office, I was a tangled thread of nerves and exhaustion, unraveling faster than I could gather myself back up. I had never been more thankful she lets me come in on Saturdays because that meant the rest of the building was empty. My leg was throbbing as I made my way to her door. She was already waiting, door opened. Despite her smiling, I knew she would ask why I was late. But then I saw it… or rather, didn’t. The long grey pillow. The one I always hold, the one that’s absorbed countless tears and confessions. Gone. My heart stuttered. I tried to keep my voice even when I asked, “Where is it?” But she saw it immediately, the way my eyes searched for something familiar, something safe. “Does it bother you that it’s gone?” she asked gently. The way she knew exactly what I was talking about told me its removal was intentional, probably a test for where she wanted to take this session. Of course, she knew it would bother me. It wasn’t just a pillow. It was my anchor. The one constant in a room where I’ve had to face every version of my pain. Its absence felt like being stripped bare before I was ready, like walking into battle and realizing I’d left my armor behind.

I sank into the couch, the kind of sinking that feels less like resting and more like being swallowed whole. Before I could even find words, my body betrayed me… my chest tightened, my throat ached, and the pressure behind my eyes gave way. It wasn’t a delicate cry; it was primal, guttural, the kind that shakes something loose you didn’t know was still clinging on. My sobs came in waves, crashing one after another until I was gasping for air between them, choking on a month’s worth of silence I’d forced myself to carry. Every tear felt like an old wound reopening, bleeding out all the grief I’d tucked neatly behind composure. She moved from her chair to sit beside me, the soft rustle of her clothes grounding me more than any words could. When her arm wrapped around my shoulder, I didn’t just cry, I shattered. The dam I’d built inside me for survival finally split wide open, and for the first time in a month, I didn’t fight the flood.

Usually, she asks me to name what hurts, to follow the thread of pain until I can make sense of it, like grief is something that can be mapped or measured. But this time, she didn’t reach for her grounding techniques or her words. She just stayed there, quiet and steady, holding me in a silence that felt more healing than any advice could. Her presence said what language never could: You don’t have to understand this to release it. And for once, I let myself fall apart without trying to gather the pieces back up. I just let the storm pass through me, wild and unfiltered, until the only thing left was breath and the faint reminder that maybe breaking wasn’t the same thing as failing. Then came the guilt… like the echo after a storm. It’s always the same sequence: release, relief, and then the crash of shame that follows. My tears were still wet on my face when I started apologizing, tripping over my own words, desperate to justify my existence in that room. I told her I was sorry for wasting her time, sorry for still being this fragile after all these years, sorry for crying when I should’ve been stronger by now, learned how to cope properly. I tried to make a joke about being her “lost cause,” but my voice cracked halfway through. I told her she was amazing, that she deserved clients who actually got better… clients who made her feel like all her training meant something. I kept trying to convince her that my inability to heal wasn’t her fault, even as my voice trembled under the weight of the lie I couldn’t stop believing: that I am unfixable. That I’m the kind of broken you don’t mend, you just learn to work around.

She let me ramble until the words started to dissolve into hiccuped breaths. Then she exhaled… that soft, knowing sigh that carried the kind of understanding you can’t fake. She didn’t rush to correct me, didn’t offer one of her grounding metaphors about growth or resilience. She just looked at me with that steady kind of compassion that doesn’t ask you to be anything but human. Then, without a word, she reached out and cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear like it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “You never have to do today again.”

And it hit me in a way that nothing else she’s ever said in that room had before. Not as comfort, but as truth. I didn’t have to relive this day… the spiral, the exhaustion, the breaking. It was over. Survived. I could leave it here, in this room, in her words, in her hand. For the first time in a long while, I let that truth settle into the cracks of me like balm: even on the worst days, there’s still an ending. And maybe that’s enough.

Something in me loosened, like a knot I didn’t even realize I’d been tightening for years finally gave way. You never have to do today again. It was such a simple sentence, yet it landed like scripture. It wasn’t wrapped in positivity or drenched in forced optimism; it was gentle and real. I didn’t feel like I had to climb out of my pain or dress it up in something poetic to make it more palatable. I just had to sit there and breathe in the truth of it: that this day, this exhaustion, this ache… it truly is only temporary. It would never repeat itself in the exact same way. And there was something profoundly freeing in that realization.

I didn’t need a pep talk, or a checklist, or another reminder that “it gets better”. Those words always felt like promises the world couldn’t keep. What I needed was exactly what she gave me… permission to admit that today was unbearable, and that surviving it was enough. No gold stars. No timeline. Just enough. Her words cracked open the part that still believed I had to earn my healing, that I had to justify my sadness with progress. But I know that with healing, there isn’t a finish line. What if it’s a quiet endurance, the act of simply not giving up, even when everything inside you begs you to? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe healing isn’t pretending we’re fine or stacking good days like proof that we’ve evolved. Maybe it’s standing knee-deep in the wreckage of a day that nearly destroyed you and realizing you’re still breathing. Maybe it’s allowing yourself to rest in the smallest mercy: that you don’t ever have to live this same day twice. You can set it down. You can let it be over. And in doing so, maybe you start to make room for something softer to take its place.

When I got back in the car, something felt different. The air wasn’t heavy anymore… it was softer, like the world had finally exhaled and released all its tension with me. When I started the car, the radio flickered back to life, the screen glowing faintly before the music filled the silence. It wasn’t even one of my usual songs, but somehow, it felt right, like the universe was offering a quiet truce. Every light on the drive home was green, a small mercy I didn’t know I needed, and I caught myself breathing easier with each one. When I pulled into the parking lot, the man who’d scratched my car was standing there, waiting nervously beside his own. His face softened with relief when he saw me. He apologized over and over, offered to pay for the damage, but when I looked closer, the scratch that had seemed so deep before was barely visible in the afternoon light. I smiled, tired but genuine, and told him it was okay. And for once, I meant it. Inside, I found the broken piece of my cosmic mug sitting near the sink, a tiny fragment of the morning that had started it all. I remembered a video Joel once made about repairing pottery with gold. I made a mental note to look it up later. The rest of the day wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t unbearable either. And maybe that’s enough. I’m just thankful that I’ll never have to do today again.