it’s dark at 5 pm now. dinner is at 6 pm. mom and abuela are making something special tonight, Spanish croquettes, one of my favorites.
every year, this part of fall sneaks up on me, and I can feel the change in my chest, like a heavy ache. there’s something about losing those daylight hours that just makes everything feel … harder.
I know it affects a lot of people, and that we all face our own battles. I can’t pretend to know how things are for everyone else. for me, dealing with a substance abuse disorder on top of it makes it more intense. the early darkness stirs up feelings, ones I try hard to push away. I can feel that familiar restlessness creeping in, looking for a way out, something to dull the edges.
some nights, it’s like I find the stairs, the door, and the lock—but the bright room I want to get to stays hidden.
I’m finding ways to remind myself that resilience is shared by all of us, even if our paths look different. I know I need to be kind to myself, especially now. maybe that’s staying tight with people in group who get it, making music, helping out at the memory care center, sticking to my routines, or making an effort to get out into whatever sunlight there is.
I keep reminding myself that this feeling isn’t forever—it’s just the season. the monsters are not me. they belong outside; I don’t have to let them in. I can do this. one day at a time, one sunset at a time, until the light returns quietly, and I feel it the way I feel my mother’s hands holding me close.
cookie nieves 
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