I do.
I love life.
I love the colors, the warmth of sunlight on a quiet morning,
the laughter that bubbles out unexpectedly,
the way music hits differently when I’m not thinking — just feeling.
I love how a small kindness from a stranger can restore something in me.
I love stories.
I love the sound of children playing outside.
I love how my heart still wants to believe in good things.
But sometimes...
life feels heavy.
Not because I don’t love it —
but because I’ve carried so much for so long.
Invisible things: responsibilities, secrets, expectations,
the echo of people who said, “Only you can fix this.”
I’ve been the one who showed up.
The one who handled it.
The one who kept going.
Even when I was tired.
Even when I wanted someone — anyone — to notice that I was also human.
Some days I wonder how much more beautiful life could feel
if I wasn’t always holding everyone else’s pieces.
But still, I love life.
Even when it’s unfair.
Even when I’m healing from things I didn’t cause.
Even when I cry quietly after smiling all day.
I love life because I haven’t given up on it —
and more importantly,
I haven’t given up on me.
So maybe loving life means this:
Letting the heavy moments visit,
but not letting them build a home in me.
Maybe it means learning to rest,
to release,
to choose myself
without guilt.
Because I am allowed to enjoy this life —
not just survive it.
