The Tranquil Vintessa

Lying in bed, I stare at the canopy above me. I can’t even be bothered to move. My mind replays my worst hits, complete with commentary. Regret, shame, and guilt weigh heavy on my chest.

I turn onto my side, watching the sunlight struggle to brighten my room through the clouds and the line of trees outside my window. I just want to lay here and sulk. I try to remind myself that my past actions don’t define who I am, even if they happened just yesterday. But it doesn’t always work. Sometimes, you just get sad.

I was preparing for a day of regret and solitude when I heard the jingle of a collar and felt something pounce onto my bed. My puppy. He was here for love—and to wake me up because he had to pee. I can’t sulk with a dog to take care of. His wagging tail is a constant reminder that things can get better.

He was a rescue, found on the streets with matted fur so bad that his collar had fused to his skin. I don’t know what happened to him out there, but I remember the panic attacks he had at night—his eyes wide, pacing back and forth, desperate for shelter. Now, he sleeps wherever he pleases, knowing he is safe, wanted, and loved.

I reflect on this as I prepare his breakfast and feed him his anxiety medication. After his meal and my coffee, we head out for our morning walk.

As I listen to the birds’ song and the squirrels’ chatter, I look up at the sky—a vast blue expanse covered in wisps of clouds. There’s something about the sky that reminds me how small my problems are in the grand scheme of things. Just bumps in the road.

Back home, I attempt to return to my solitude, but the sun is too bright, and my puppy is too bouncy. He whimpers for attention, and reluctantly, I give in. I’d rather just lay here, but then I pause.

Why do I want to sulk? Why hold onto sadness and regret when I have so much joy in my life?

I play with my pup, and after he steals the ball one too many times, I call my sister. Not to vent, just to talk. We can talk about nothing for hours, and today, that’s exactly what I need—to pull myself out of this headspace. As we chat, I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. Our relationship wasn’t always like this, but it’s nice now. I’m thankful.

After the call, I sip tea on my balcony, watching the squirrels bounce around, their chubby bodies comical as they scurry. The rest of the day, I allow myself to rest. I make my new favorite recipe—sweet potato gnocchi in sage butter.

That night, I climb back into the same bed that felt so heavy this morning. Candles flicker, low ambient music hums in the background, and my pup sleeps at my feet. I pull out my journal, ready to write.

I was so caught up in the past this morning—the things I wish I had done, the moments I wish hadn’t happened—that I almost forgot to live in the present. But today, I laughed. I connected. I enjoyed the warmth of my home, the love of my dog, and the simple pleasures of a meal cooked just for me.

So instead of writing about how bad my morning was, I write about everything I’m grateful for. My lovely life. And how I can’t wait for tomorrow to begin the journey again.