This is a personal experience for me. I was in the hospital for about a week when I got diagnosed with CML (Chronic Myeloid Leukemia). This was 4 years ago, and I’m still on chemotherapy today.

Enjoy :)

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Every night, at the same time, my hand reaches out for the small orange bottle on my desk. Inside are huge pills—unassuming and routine. I don’t take them because I want to, but because I have to. They’re my lifeline, a quiet promise that I can step outside into the sunlight without fear. Without them, I’d be back in a hospital bed, trapped in a place where time drags and hope feels distant.

It wasn’t always like this.

I still remember the week that changed everything. It began slowly, yet solidified itself quite quickly. I couldn’t keep the food I ate down, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even muster the energy to care about the world beyond those sterile, creamy-white walls. For seven endless days, I lay there, hollow and disconnected, watching the minutes tick by as if through someone else’s eyes. I wasn’t living—I was existing, running on autopilot.

Then, everything shifted the moment I left.

The hospital doors slid open, and the cool evening air embraced me. It carried with it the faint scent of grass and distant flowers, a contrast to the sterile smells I’d grown used to. My legs wobbled, but I managed to take a step forward, then another. I looked up—and there it was.

The sun was setting, casting the sky in fiery shades of gold, pink, and lavender. It was breathtaking. I stopped in my tracks, transfixed by the sheer beauty of it. Tears nearly pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them. I didn’t want to cry; I wanted to feel, to absorb this moment.

On the ride home, I couldn’t look away from the scenery. Every tree, every shadow, every fleeting color of the sunset seemed to hold a meaning I hadn’t noticed before. It was as if I’d been given new eyes, and the world had transformed into something vivid and extraordinary. That’s when it hit me.

I had been asleep. Not physically, but emotionally. For so long, I had taken life for granted, blind to the beauty around me. That week in the hospital, as unbearable as it had been, woke me up to something profound: life wasn’t just about getting through the day. It was about seeing, feeling, experiencing.

From that moment on, I made a vow. I would take notice of the world around me—the way sunlight filters through the trees, the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, the intricate patterns of a single flower petal. I even started taking pictures, capturing moments that reminded me of the beauty I had overlooked. Every photo was a celebration, a reminder of the day I woke up.

The pills remain a constant in my life, but they no longer feel like a burden. They taste REALLY bad, yes, but they are my connection to the world I’ve rediscovered—a world filled with sunsets, nature, and the quiet joy of simply being alive.