I Am Going to Stay Another Day

I am going to stay another day.

I say it like a promise. Like a dare. Like a lifeline I’ve wrapped around my fingers so tightly they’re turning blue.

Because the truth is—I’ve thought about not being here. More than once. More than I want to admit.

And today... today I almost let the thought win.

But I didn’t.

Because something in me whispered, not yet.

Not yet, because I haven’t walked barefoot in the grass with a toddler version of me stumbling beside me, sticky with juice and laughing at nothing.

Not yet, because I haven’t stood under an archway in a dress that makes me feel holy, locking eyes with someone who chose me and never stopped.

Not yet, because there’s a porch swing somewhere in the future with my name on it, and a cup of coffee I’ll sip while watching the sunrise with someone I built a life with.

Not yet, because there are sleepy Sunday mornings and belly laughs and inside jokes I haven’t made yet.

I am going to stay another day.

I want to meet the kids I haven’t named yet. I want to braid my daughter’s hair and tell her she’s more than pretty—that she’s kind, strong, smart, and funny. That her worth isn’t in who wants her, but who she already is.

I want to watch my son fall asleep in the back seat on the way home from a baseball game, and I want to carry him in even though he’s too big. I want to cry the first time I see his eyes when he understands the world is hard—and hold him like he’s still five, even if he’s sixteen.

I want to fall in love. Stupid, embarrassing, slow-burn love. The kind where you're afraid to say “I love you” first but also can’t help it. The kind that still makes you laugh after thirty years. The kind that knows when to hold you and when to push you to grow.

I want to argue over dumb things like thermostat settings and whose turn it is to take out the trash. And then I want to laugh about it an hour later because we both know the argument wasn’t really about the trash at all.

I want to grow old. Wrinkle-faced, soft-eyed, story-filled old. I want to wear sweaters in July and watch birds from the window and tell anyone who’ll listen that this life—this crazy, heartbreaking, beautiful mess—was so worth it.

I want to see the world. Not just in the travel-blog kind of way, but in the real way. I want to stand in places where history breathes, and maybe cry at the edge of cliffs, and kiss in airports, and sit on foreign trains with someone I love, leaning into their shoulder while the countryside blurs by.

And yeah—I want to dance in kitchens. I want to sing badly to the wrong lyrics. I want to stay up too late talking about everything and nothing. I want to cry over losses and laugh over memories and hold hands even when they’re shaking.

I want to live.

But it’s hard. God, it’s hard.

Some mornings I open my eyes and feel like I already failed. Like the weight of the world crawled back onto my chest before I even had a chance to breathe.

There are days when brushing my teeth feels like climbing a mountain. Days where the noise in my head is louder than the world outside it.

But then I hear something—maybe a bird, or a laugh, or the kettle boiling—and it’s just enough. Just enough to pull me out. Just enough to make me think, maybe today isn’t the end.

Because even if I’m not okay right now, that doesn’t mean I’ll never be.

Even if today feels like drowning, maybe tomorrow will feel like breathing again.

I want to tell my future self, the one with gray in her hair and lines in her skin, that I stayed. That I fought. That I kept walking even when the ground felt like it was crumbling.

I want her to be proud of me.

I want her to sit on that porch swing with her coffee and her old bones and remember this moment—not with shame, but with awe. Like, God, look at everything I almost missed.

The late-night drives. The spontaneous road trips. The quiet moments. The tears in someone else’s eyes when they say, “I do.” The feeling of mattering, not to everyone—but to someone.

That’s why I stayed.

Because this world, even with all its darkness, still has fireflies. Still has campfires and marshmallows and songs sung out of tune. Still has hugs that melt you. Still has hands to hold.

Still has more pages to write.

I don’t want to end the story on page twenty. I want to keep flipping the chapters. Even when the pages are heavy. Even when I don’t like where the plot is going. Even when it hurts.

Because maybe page sixty is where the breakthrough happens.

Maybe page ninety is the moment that changes everything.

Maybe page two hundred is where I finally find peace.

I don’t know what tomorrow looks like. Or next week. Or next year.

But I want to find out. I want to be surprised. I want to be amazed.

And even if it’s messy, even if it’s never perfect, I still want to live it.

So, I’m staying.

For my future.

For my dreams.

For the love I haven’t found yet.

For the kids who don’t exist yet.

For the old woman I’ll become someday.

For the people I love.

And for the person I’m still becoming.

I’m staying.

And I’ll keep saying it, as often as it takes:

I am going to stay another day.

Author’s Note

Remember: if you or anyone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide or self-harm, please reach out for support. You are not alone. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 988, and there are people ready to listen and help.

Your life matters. Every day is worth staying for.