This morning, I met a teacher in the form of a squirrel. Small, crooked, and undeniably altered by something — an injury, a difference, a mark from the world — it moved slower than the rest. It wasn’t fast. It didn’t dart. Its spine bent slightly off center, and its steps were uncertain. But still, it came. Still, it reached for the peanut I held out in my hand.

And I felt it — that quiet will to live.

Not as something loud or dramatic.

Not as something heroic or glorified.

But as something ancient. Something humble.

A hunger that does not give up.

There are days, perhaps, when we feel like that squirrel. Bent by the weight of pain, slowed by our own invisible wounds, maybe moving differently than others — but alive. Still craving the warm peanut of connection. Still grateful for the hand that offers presence without pity. Still choosing life.

The will to live is not always fierce.

Sometimes, it is tender.

Sometimes, it is simply the refusal to disappear.

Sometimes, it looks like showing up, even when our shape is not what it used to be.

Spirit speaks through the smallest encounters — a glance between beings, a moment of nourishment, a pause in the rush. I saw in that little creature a mirror. How many times have I doubted my pace, or questioned the crookedness of my path, not realizing I am still here — and that is the miracle?

To live is to choose breath again. To be hungry again.

To want the peanut. To accept the softness of company.

If no one has told you today: your will to keep going — in whatever shape you’re in — is sacred. It is not measured by how quickly you move or how upright you stand. It is felt in your quiet hunger to see another sunrise, to find meaning, to taste something nourishing, to be in the presence of someone who sees you.