When I was in rehab, every day followed almost the exact same rhythm, a steady, unchanging routine that at first felt endless. We would wake up early, our bodies still heavy with sleep, and begin the day with Zumba — moving stiffly at first, then laughing as the music slowly shook off the morning fog. Afterward, we would wash up, eat breakfast, and line up to take our medications.
Then came the morning meeting, a space where we checked in with ourselves and each other, sharing struggles, victories, or simply sitting in silence if that’s all we could manage. After lunch, we’d slip into siesta, napping under the weight of the midday heat. Merienda — our afternoon snack — would follow, a small comfort that marked the slow progression of the day.
One of the hardest parts of the schedule was “confrontation,” a session where we faced ourselves and each other with brutal honesty. We would recite the rosary afterward, a moment of collective prayer that softened the edges of our pain, even if just for a little while. Then dinner, more medications, a final wash-up, and sleep.
Day after day, it was always the same — or some slight variation of it — a life stripped down to its barest bones.
At first, the repetition felt suffocating. But over time, something inside me shifted. I began to understand the beauty hidden within the routine. I learned to appreciate the simple, passing days — however ordinary, however uneventful they seemed. Rehab taught me that there is profound value in the mundane, that the simple act of seeing another day is itself a small miracle.
Each new morning gave me the chance to correct the mistakes of the day before. Each repetition of our schedule was another chance to live a little better, to know myself a little more deeply. Rehab recalibrated my life. It was as if I had been rebooted — my old ways of thinking and living stripped away, replaced by a beginner’s mindset.
And so, I started each day as if I were new to the world — with humility, gratitude, and the quiet determination to try again.