I’m doing my laundry again. I’m not letting it pile up in heaps reminding me just how many days I have gone without my motivation. I am not buying new yoga pants because picking up all of my clothes and carrying them the several feet to the washer seems just as difficult as trying to find Atlantis.

I’ve kept a plant alive since May. This is a major triumph over my previous two-week record. This time around I did not let the only thing I was supposed to take care of wither into a dried corps that spiders wanted to make a home in. If I’m being brutally honest, I talked to this plant a little more. I named her. What I’m trying to say is that I have been trying. Trying must be a sign of doing better. While succulents are easier to help thrive than herbs, I think this plant is surviving because it is easier to remember to water a plant when I am taking care of myself.

I don’t feel the urge to lie down while crossing the street anymore. I don’t have as many times where I just want to stop. I don’t wander dangerously at night with headphones in, walking until I can calm down enough to sleep. I no longer walk past snowbanks and think they look like a beautiful place to lie down. I get through the day better now.

I am doing better. My anxiety isn’t gone — it is still a part of most breaths but it isn’t sitting in the cockpit of my brain steering me through every situation in life with dread in my eyes. Now anxiety is a passenger, not the pilot. It is with me but it doesn’t completely take me over like it used to.

I’m doing better. I haven’t skipped a class yet because I didn’t want to go. This time last fall I had already missed six classes just because my bed isn’t portable and I’d have to leave it to go to class. This time last year I already felt behind. I felt like I was drowning and I wasn’t even taking a full course load.

I am doing better. When I actually show up to class now, unlike I did in the past, I don’t show up in baggy sweatpants and a tight hoody. I don’t show up in ripped leggings and the shirt I might have slept in. I put on real pants now. I wear shirts that weren’t crumpled at the foot of my bed. I put on shoes because they’re comfortable, not because they were the closest thing to my bed and I couldn’t bear to put effort into putting on shoes.

I don’t let my dishes pile into Mount Everest anymore before I do them. I don’t have to finally cave in and do them because I ran out of forks again. Now, I have clean dishes. I even put them where they’re supposed to go sometimes now.

I’ve been eating meals. I’ve been packing my lunches with protein and grains and vegetables. My food is getting more well-rounded as I am getting more well-rounded. I have been eating snacks when I get hungry instead of grabbing another coffee. My body feels less lethargic. I’m doing better.

I sleep now, sometimes. I don’t see 3:00a.m. displayed across my phone as often as I used to. I get at least four hours of sleep every night now, even the ones where I feel like I’ll never get to sleep. Somehow, brick by brick, I destroyed the foundation of terrible sleep habits. Slowly, I am getting closer to functional.

I am doing better. I don’t sleep through therapy appointments anymore. I still push myself too hard and I still take on too much, but I’m less flaky now. I’m doing better, but I’m not there yet.