People talk about resilience like it’s some inner superpower you either have or you don’t. I’ve never bought that. Most of the changes that shaped me didn’t arrive with a cape. They showed up as ordinary days that asked a little more of me than I felt like giving.

Some moments knock you flat. Some just take the wind out of you. And every so often, something small—a memory, a sentence, a golden retriever staring at you like he already knows the answer—nudges you forward again.

I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about bouncing back. I don’t know anyone who bounces. It’s more of a slow, uneven motion toward yourself. It’s choosing to keep writing the next line, even when you don’t know where the story is headed. It’s giving yourself room to be undone without assuming that’s the end of the plot.

My own resilience has grown in the quiet places: mornings when grief felt louder than the coffee maker, nights when the page held more truth than I wanted to say out loud, days when the smallest bit of progress counted as a win. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It was consistent. It was imperfect. It was mine.

And maybe that’s the real heart of it: resilience isn’t a finish line. It’s a way of meeting yourself again and again, even when the version you’re meeting is tired or grieving or trying to remember why this chapter matters.

If you’re in a season that feels heavy or uncertain, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just in the middle of the story. Keep going. There’s more ahead—you just haven’t written it yet.

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