Not Worse

July 11, 2026

I used to think in terms of better and worse. Good days, bad days. That was the language before.

Now there's a line in the sand, and everything gets measured against it. May 28th was the best day. The day before I knew. The last day of the world where my son was still in it.

Since then... better isn't a word I understand anymore. I can't reach for it. It's a shape I don't recognize, a language I used to speak.

But not worse... that I understand. That I can hold.

Not worse doesn't mean okay. It doesn't mean fine. God, it's not even close to better. It just means I haven't found a new floor beneath the one I already fell through. It means the worst day is still the worst day, and today isn't trying to compete with it.

So I've started measuring differently.

A sunset that stops me for a second, mid-thought, mid-nothing.

Coming home and none of the dogs had an accident.

Getting out of bed when it feels like there's a 500lb weight chained to my ankle and the mattress, dragging me back down every single time.

A brief moment of sanity. Just a moment. Not healing. Not peace. Just... a moment where my mind isn't screaming.

None of this is big. None of it would have registered before. Before, I wouldn't have counted any of it. Now, it's the whole scorecard.

Not worse is the barometer that makes sense to me right now.

It doesn't ask me to be strong. It doesn't ask me to be healed. It just asks... did today add more weight, or did it not.

Today, it did not.

I'll take it.