Today I closed the last page of my history course. To be honest, I didn’t love it. American history has never stirred anything in me, and these past weeks didn’t change that. Most days, it felt like a grind. But I stayed. I showed up. And now it’s done.
If the grades land the way I hope, I’ll finish with an A. That would put me on the honor roll again—something I’m quietly proud of, not because I adored the work, but because I didn’t. It’s easy to show up for what excites us. It’s harder when the subject feels distant, and still, you keep moving. There’s a certain quiet strength in that.
Now I have a week off before starting natural science. I want to use this time to reset—to put my house and my life back in order after weeks of feeling scattered. Somewhere in the chaos, I stopped taking my meds for a while. And then came the news: I’m prediabetic. That hit harder than I expected. It feels unfair, in a way, because I’ve already lost over twenty pounds. I thought that would be enough. But life doesn’t always pay us in neat, predictable ways.
So now, more changes. More care. I’ve started going to the gym, adding small bits of movement at home. It’s all I can do for now—little acts that feel like both rebellion and self-respect. I can’t control everything, but I can keep showing up.
Today, though, I’m letting myself feel the accomplishment of finishing something I didn’t love. That matters. There’s beauty in persistence, in choosing to keep going even when the work is dry and the joy is thin. Maybe that kind of strength is its own softness—quiet, steady, and real.
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