The Quiet Power of a New Day

Two poems to help you find strength in the simple act of waking up.

Photo by Tobias Tullius.

I'm constantly walking a tightrope between the fire and the garden, between writing about the world's heavy, bruised pulse and holding onto the stillness it takes to breathe deeply, to remember that there’s more than survival—there’s the possibility of thriving. Today I’m hoping to add to what helps people thrive by sharing two of my poems as a reminder of the power of simply waking up to a new day.

There’s a moment right between sleep and consciousness when the body wakes before the mind. A brief quiet before the rush, the demands, the names you answer to, the faces you carry with you. In that space, there is the reminder that despite everything—despite the weight of the hours that came before, the grief, the beauty—it’s still possible to open your eyes. There’s something miraculous in that. Maybe that’s why we keep trying.

You’ve heard people talk about resilience as if it’s a shield, but what if it’s more like a river? Something that carves through the land, wearing down everything in its path, yet still flowing—constant, determined. Resilience doesn’t always roar; sometimes it’s the quiet water slipping through the cracks. It’s the act of waking up again, of giving yourself permission to witness a new day. Even when yesterday clings to your bones, refuses to loosen its grip, you still rise.

In the poems, I try to briefly hold onto that moment, that river. I try to stretch it across the page, pin it down with words, but words are always slippery. There’s a certain defiance in creating when everything around you asks for surrender. That’s what these poems are: small rebellions against the idea that there’s nothing left to hope for.

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