If mental illness was a blizzard that snowed you in,
You could just stay inside.
You’d be warm and safe,
Until you ran out of power or food.
But if you picked up a shovel and went out to clear a path,
At first it would seem daunting.
The snow, waist deep, one shovel having no effect,
On the sea of white ahead of you.
You’d start with a burst of energy,
Perhaps too rapidly trying to clear your way in one felled swoop,
But quickly learn that pace is your friend.
You’d scoop the maximum amount of snow,
Only to spill some at your feet on the spot you’ve already cleared.
Continuing in this manner begets exhaustion,
Frustrated you might look back towards the warm house behind you.
NO! Turn and see the path not yet cleared.
One shovel makes no dent, but ten will.
One by one, measure your pace. Lift what you can.
An hour goes by, and the house is farther behind you.
Two hours, and you’re almost to the street.
As you near the end, it’s exhilarating.
A feeling of accomplishment unmatched.
A neighbor might even lend a hand to help you finish.
Today you shoveled out.
Tomorrow, it might snow again. That is not within your control.
Will you accept defeat, or go back outside?