Tonight, as we lay in bed, you asleep on my chest, the soft tune of “You Are My Sunshine” plays quietly in the background. A blue moon and stars, cast from your elephant music maker, shimmer across the ceiling. I glance around the room, taking it all in—the perfectly arranged stuffies you invited to our “sleepover,” your steady breath against my chest—and I breathe in gratitude, acceptance, and peace.

For someone like me, peace hasn’t always been easy to recognize. Chaos became such a normal state of being for so long that calm moments felt foreign—sometimes even uncomfortable. Peace meant being still. Stillness meant being present. And being present often meant sitting with myself—something I used to avoid at all costs.

But recovery has taught me something I never expected: peace shows up in the smallest ways if I’m willing to notice. Tonight was one of those ways. Sure, I lay with my son every night—the same playlist, the same stars reflected on the ceiling, the same rise and fall of his breath—but something about tonight hit differently. Tonight, it felt sacred.

I’ve realized that I’m often so busy tearing myself down—rehashing mistakes, bracing for judgment, or fearing what others might think—that I miss the beauty right in front of me. Even after surviving addiction, custody battles, mental health struggles, and leaving abusive relationships, I still catch myself wondering if I’m “enough.” Wondering if my story is even worth telling. The truth is, just being here, alive to tell it, is already everything.

Covid didn’t help. It shrank my world in ways I didn’t fully see at first. What used to be weekly conversations and interactions turned into monthly, if that. I became too comfortable in my own little bubble. Masks gave me anxiety, running into old faces at the grocery store filled me with dread, and isolation became a habit. Slowly, without realizing it, I slid backward into that too-familiar spiral.

But here’s where I draw the line. My goal this year is to step outside my comfort zone. To expand my world again. To do things that make me feel good about myself—not because anyone else says so, but because I deserve it.

So I’m choosing to make peace my mission. To grab onto those moments when I feel it—like tonight—and actually sit with them. Not rush past them. Not sabotage them. Just let them be.

Because those little moments of peace? They’re proof. Proof that I’ve made it through the storm. Proof that I’m still here. Proof that life—even in its simplest, quietest forms—is worth loving.

And maybe most of all, proof that I’m worth loving, too.