السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته أختي مرحباً
Gratitude is such a small yet impactful practice. Tuesday morning, I woke up feeling overwhelmingly nauseous, startled awake by a tickle in my throat. At first, I thought maybe a bug had flown into my mouth since I sometimes sleep with it open. But soon, I realized the tickle on my tonsils was a signal. Moments later, I found myself rushing to the bathroom, my body expelling what felt like more than just food—almost like my guts themselves were rebelling.
I absolutely hate vomiting—the sensation, the nausea, the smell, the whole ordeal. If I could choose which symptoms to endure, vomiting would not be one of them. I often try to hold it in just to avoid it entirely. But there I was, spending the whole of Tuesday either sleeping, feeling nauseated, or too depleted to move, with zero appetite to speak of.
I thought about my recent food choices and how they might have contributed—perhaps too much dairy the day before (those homemade taco fries were too good). But even amid that miserable experience, I found myself practicing gratitude. As I lay there, I thought about how resilient mothers are. If morning sickness feels anything like this, moms everywhere are absolute troopers.
The next day, I woke up less nauseous but still weak, with slight chills and a mild fever (and no, it wasn’t COVID). Nonetheless, by midday, I managed to muster up enough strength to get groceries for a lentil soup I hoped would nurse me back to health. It was rainy, cold, and dark—the kind of dreary weather that makes you want to stay in bed. But even in that mess of circumstances, I felt gratitude working inside me.
In the past, I might have felt resentful or frustrated at having to rely solely on myself. But that little voice of entitlement was silenced. Instead, I felt proud. I showed up for myself in ways I had once hoped others would show up for me. It was a moment of self-love and growth, and I earned some well-deserved stars on my scoreboard.
As I chopped the celery, carrots, onions, and peppers for the soup, I realized this was more than just a meal—it was an act of love from me to me. I poured so much care into it, appreciating every step of the process. That bowl of soup became a symbol of my gratitude and resilience, and every spoonful felt profound.
Though I spent the rest of the week recovering (which is why I missed Friday’s blog post), I practiced patience with myself. I reminded myself that it’s okay to pause and prioritize healing—the sisters would understand. After all, if I didn’t take care of me, who would?
This experience inspired me to experiment with cleaner eating habits. I’ve decided to lay off dairy and beef for a while and incorporate more gut-friendly foods into my diet. One of the first new dishes I tried was a coconut curry chicken—creamy, rich, and flavorful. It could’ve used more spice, but it’s definitely earned a spot in my regular dinner rotation.
In moments like these, I’m reminded of the power of gratitude. It doesn’t take away the hard stuff, but it gives me the strength to face it with grace. Here’s to showing up for ourselves, one bowl of soup at a time.
