Good Days.

What are they? What do they look like?

People see you smiling and tell you how well you’re doing. They assume you’re having a good day. They’re usually wrong.

Over the last few years, I’ve realised that we all measure our days differently. I used to think a good day was one where I’d gone for a run, or a long walk. I measured it by how much I’d done, my productivity, my output. Something visible. Something provable.

That’s changed.

Now I know you can’t look at someone and understand the kind of day they’re having. A smile can hold more pain than most people could imagine.

So how do we really know? Are there signs?
Is it in a hug that lingers a little longer, or a smile that fades the second no one’s watching?

I’ve had people worry about me on the days I do nothing but sleep, or when even getting to the bathroom feels like too much. But those same people also worry when I’ve done housework, gone for a short walk, or seem “productive”, because maybe I’ve pushed myself too far. There’s always concern around the “bad days.” But there are also comments on the “good days.”

“You’re doing better recently.”
“You must be having a good day.”

Sometimes, even when I say I’m not, it’s dismissed, as if I don’t know my own body. But those “good” days? They can feel impossible. Like my body is being pulled apart from the inside.

I used to second-guess myself. If someone said I was having a good day, maybe I was wrong. If I needed to stay in bed, then surely that meant it was a bad one. But there isn’t a scale for this. No universal measurement. Every day stands on its own.

A day in bed can be a good day. Rest, recovery, what my body needs. Another day that looks exactly the same can be the opposite, when I physically can’t get up. On the surface, they look identical. But they are completely different.

We say not to judge a book by its cover, but we still do it with people all the time. The truth is, not every struggle is visible. You can try to understand someone, but you’ll never fully know what’s going on inside their body or their mind.

Lately, I’ve been baking more; banana bread, artisan loaves, cookies, cakes. I love it! It’s something that brings me a bit of peace. But does baking mean I’m having a good day? Not always.

One day, baking a cake might feel like a win. Something I can manage, slowly, with breaks. Another day, I might bake two things, and from the outside, it looks like I’m thriving. What people don’t see is the pain management. The tears. The exhaustion. The negotiation between what my body is begging for and what my mind needs to cope.

Because sometimes, keeping busy is the only way to distract from the pain. And stopping feels just as unbearable, but in a different way. It becomes a constant tug of war between body and mind. And there isn’t always a way to win. It feels impossible.

What I’m learning, still learning, is this…

Each day is your own.

There’s no comparison. Not with other people, and not even with past versions of yourself. The metrics don’t exist in the way we think they do. A good day and a bad day can look exactly the same.

So stop measuring. Stop comparing. Stop letting other people define your experience for you.

If someone tells you you’re having a good day, but it doesn’t feel that way, trust yourself. Take it one step at a time. Because every day really is a new day, even when it looks identical to the last. And looks can be incredibly deceiving.

Maybe a good day isn’t something you can see. Only something you feel.

I’m learning to trust myself. 
To listen to my body.
One version of me at a time.