Climbing Out When It Feels Like the Light Is Gone

Some days, I don’t know how I’m still standing.

I wake up, and it feels like hope evaporated overnight. There’s no motivation, no drive—just the weight of everything I haven’t done and the guilt of everything I’ve let go of.

I used to be someone full of fire. I chased dreams. I created. I supported others even when I had no one in my corner. But lately? It’s like I’ve lost touch with that version of me. The light I used to carry dimmed somewhere along the way, and now I’m just trying to find it again… or maybe create a new one.

I longed for the sun and warmth—craved it like a lifeline. I told myself that once winter passed, once the cold let go of its grip, I’d feel better. More alive. More inspired. I’d get moving again.

But here I am.

The sun is out. The days are longer. The world is blooming again.

And I still drag my ass to get motivated.

That’s the frustrating part no one talks about. How even when the circumstances improve, the fog doesn’t always lift. It clings to you. It sinks its teeth in. And it makes you feel guilty, like you’re wasting the good weather, the good moments, the second chances. People say, “Get outside, feel the warmth, that’ll fix it.” But sometimes, even standing in the sunlight, you feel cold inside.

And if I’m being honest, I’m just tired.

Tired of promises that get broken by others—tired of people who say they’ll be there, who say they’ll help, and then vanish when it counts.

Tired of sitting alone with my thoughts, replaying the same doubts, the same what-ifs, over and over.

Tired of working so hard that by the time I have a free moment, I’m too mentally and physically exhausted to do anything I actually care about.

And I miss things—deeply.

I miss the city life: the noise, the pulse, the feeling that something was always happening. I miss being surrounded by people who knew me, who understood the rhythm I lived by. I miss late-night talks with friends who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.

But more than anything, I miss being happy.

Genuinely happy—not just getting by, not just pushing through, but feeling alive in my own skin.

And sometimes, I wonder if my light dimmed the day I lost my mom three years ago.

Or maybe it happened gradually—after losing people I loved, pets who were family, pieces of myself I never got back. I honestly don’t know where I lost my way. I just know that somewhere along the road, the world got heavier and my fire got smaller. And now, I’m trying to figure out how to keep going with only a flicker left.

My kids are grown now, living their own lives—something that fills me with so much pride. I’m proud of who they are, proud of what they’re building for themselves. But if I’m being honest, it also makes me sad.

I don’t see them as much. I don’t hear their laughter in the next room, like when they were kids. The house is quieter, and it echoes in ways it never used to.

It’s a reminder that I’m getting older. That time is moving faster.

Maybe it’s age hitting me… or maybe it’s just the weight of change. Either way, it stings sometimes, even in the midst of gratitude.

I want to start my podcast—Harmony Heartbeat—something that blends my passion for music, life, and all the messy things in between. A space where honesty is louder than perfection, and where voices like mine and yours have a place.

But that dream takes money. It takes effort. And some days, I barely have enough energy to get through the day, let alone build something from scratch.

This isn’t a success story. Not yet.

This is a middle-of-the-mess confession.

When you hit that low point—when you don’t even recognize yourself anymore—it’s hard to imagine there’s a way out. You get tired of saying, “I’m fine.” You isolate. You doubt every decision. You question if your dreams were ever real or just delusions of someone who used to believe.

But here’s the thing I’m starting to realize:

Even in this dark, hopeless place, something in me is still trying.

Some part of me is still whispering, “Try again.”

Some part of me is still fighting, even if the fight looks like just getting out of bed, taking a walk, or writing this blog. And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe rebuilding starts with the smallest acts of defiance against the slump.

Because sometimes healing doesn’t come in big breakthroughs.

It comes in inches. In showing up when you don’t want to. In doing one small thing and letting that be enough for today.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how long it’ll take to climb out. But I do know this: I’ve been down before. I’ve made something out of nothing more than stubbornness and heart. And I’m still here. Still trying.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re in the same place, please know you’re not alone.

It’s okay to be a mess.

It’s okay to not be okay.

But don’t count yourself out just yet.

Even broken things can still shine.

And even the tiniest spark can eventually start a fire.

And maybe one day real soon, Harmony Heartbeat won’t just be a dream I talk about.

Maybe it’ll be the space where we rise together—louder, realer, and more alive than we’ve felt in years.

Peace, Love and Loud Music!

Mickey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WziA88-n02k