i’m living for the small things. the way that fall smells. finding leaves that shift color beautifully. tiny pumpkins. i’m living for the way sweet tea tastes and the reactions people have when they see how much sugar i put in it. i’m learning to love myself not for my freckles or thick thighs but because i once helped save baby ducklings. because i stopped to ask if i could help the girl who was crying. i’m living with less expectations that me or my life can be a movie. somehow that makes everything romantic. i expect less from the good things, worry less about the bad. i know maybe i’ll never feel happiness the way those do without mental illness. but i’m feeling good. or better, at least, relatively. and isn’t happiness all about relativity?