It's still winter I keep waiting for the switch to flip. for the joy to come back. for the easy to come back. like before all this. but maybe that's not how it works. maybe it's not a switch it's a dimmer. a slow, subtle thing. and maybe easy isn't the point. maybe the point is to find the joy even when it's hard. the joy in the little things. the way Scout curls up next to me on the couch. the first sip of chamomile tea. the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement when I run. maybe that's enough. maybe that has to be enough. maybe the big joy is a lie. and the only truth is the little joys strung together like fairy lights in the dark.