Zebra Seeking Spoons

Hope arrives quietly now—
not as fireworks
or grand declarations,
but as a soft blanket
pulled over trembling knees,
as morning light slipping gently
through half-open blinds
after another sleepless night.

Living with chronic illness
has taught me
how heavy a body can become,
how grief can settle into muscles
like rain trapped in stone,
how pain can make even breathing
feel like work.

There are days
when my world shrinks
to pill bottles, heating pads,
unfinished plans,
and the ache of watching life
continue without me.

Days when hope feels fragile
as the flicker of a candle
fighting against the wind.

But still—
something inside me
keeps reaching for it.

Maybe hope is not meant
to roar.

Maybe it is this:

the courage to try again tomorrow,
the decision to rest
without calling myself lazy,
the text from someone who understands,
the rare glimmer of laughter
between flare-ups,
the warmth of my own hand
resting over my hurting body
like an apology
turned into love.

Maybe hope is simply
refusing to abandon myself
even when my body feels
like a battlefield.

I am learning
that hope does not require certainty.
It only asks
that I leave the door cracked open
for better days to return.

And so I do.

Even on crash days.
Even when the pain is loud.
Even when disappointment
arrives again uninvited.

I hold onto hope
the way a zebra holds onto its stripes—
not because life is easy,
but because it is part of survival,
part of identity,
part of the quiet resilience
of continuing on.

Somewhere beyond this flare,
beyond the exhaustion,
beyond the grief
of the life I once imagined,
there are still glimmers waiting for me.

And until they arrive,
I will keep carrying
this tiny stubborn flame
inside my chest—

cupping it carefully
through every storm.