Reclaiming the Present
“Don’t let the past steal your present.” – Cherríe Moraga
I used to think the present was something I had to earn. Like if I healed enough, worked hard enough, forgave deeply enough, I’d finally arrive in the now. However, the truth is, the present isn’t a prize. It’s a practice. And some days, it’s a messy one.
Reclaiming the present means choosing to be here, even when “here” feels unfinished. It’s not about ignoring the past or pretending the future doesn’t matter. It’s about learning to live in the middle: where breath happens, where small choices stack up, where healing quietly unfolds.
The Myth of Forward Motion
Recovery culture loves a good transformation story. The before-and-after. The phoenix rising. But what if the real magic isn’t in the leap? I find it’s in the linger.
I’ve spent years chasing momentum, mistaking movement for meaning. I’d fill my days with tasks, goals, checklists, anything to avoid the discomfort of stillness. But stillness isn’t empty. It’s where I hear my own voice again. It’s where I remember that I’m not a project, I’m a person.
Rituals That Anchor Me
The present doesn’t always feel safe. Sometimes it’s loud with memory, or quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar. Unhelpful thoughts can loop and tug away at my peace of mind. So I build rituals, not to control the moment, but to meet it.
Here are a few intentional actions that help me return to myself:
- Touching something textured—a stone, a blanket, a page. It reminds me I’m here.
- Lighting a candle before hard conversations. It softens the space and signals safety.
- Naming one thing I did well before bed. Even if it’s “I didn’t give up.”
These aren’t productivity hacks. They’re invitations. To be gentle and present and real.
Presence as Resistance
We live in a world that profits from our distraction. Algorithms want our attention. Hustle culture wants our exhaustion. Reclaiming the present is a radical act, it says, “I choose to be here and I choose to heal on my own terms.”
When I slow down, I notice things I used to miss: the way light shifts across the wall, the way my body loses tension when I breathe deeply, the way connection feels when it’s not rushed. These moments aren’t small. They’re sacred.
A Note to You
If you’re reading this and feeling behind, I want you to know that you’re not. Healing doesn’t follow a calendar. Presence doesn’t require perfection. You’re allowed to be exactly where you are.
So take a breath. Touch something real. Say your name out loud. You’re here and that’s enough.
