I was better last night.
At least that is what I told myself—again.
Only science and math offer clean do-overs.
You can erase a blackboard, reset a lab,
Rebalance the equation, and call it grace.
But life?
Life is jazz without sheet music—
A recipe scribbled on a crumpled napkin
Missing the one ingredient you swore you had.

History does not repeat,
It heckles from the corner of the stage.
It mimics your voice in a lower register,
Making sure you know the second verse
Will never hit like the first.
I have lost count of how many times
I stood at the door,
Greeted with wide smiles and praise,
And still whispered to myself,
“I was better last night.”

Of course I was.
I was younger.
Fresher.
Braver.
With one less day
Of sorrow sediment clinging to my ribcage.
Last night, my tongue remembered rhythm.
My spirit had more air.
My back ached less.
I had more hope per ounce of blood.

But tonight?
Tonight, I sit in this homey home office
Where my chair knows the curve of regret
And my keyboard sticks with the shame
Of all the words I never said out loud.
I scroll through old drafts
Like ex-lovers’ voicemails—
Half-finished, too intimate,
Too raw to delete,
Too true to publish.

I was better last night
Because I had not remembered yet.
The moment memory arrives,
Performance turns into penance.
Reflection curls its fingers
Around the throat of progress.

12-step programs say,
“Look back but do not stare.”
Ever wonder why?
Because the past is a minefield
Disguised as a scrapbook.
One minute you are flipping through Polaroids,
Next, you are sobbing on the floor
With a photo that smells like the perfume
You wore to your grandmother’s funeral.

I remember the nights
I was the villain in someone else’s story
And the coward in my own.
The laughter I stole.
The apologies I never gave.
The silence I weaponized.
I remember thinking selfishness was strength.
That avoiding pain
Meant I was healing.

I was not.
I was hiding.
And what hides rots.

There is a particular rot
That sets into your spirit
When you pretend yesterday
Was anything other than what it was.
You start editing your own memories
Like a bad publicist.
You Photoshop your guilt.
You crop out your cruelty.
You airbrush your selfishness.
And call it growth.

But growth without grief
Is just ego with a better haircut.

So yes—
I was better last night.
Because last night,
I had not yet admitted
That I still owe people
Phone calls and explanations.
That I am still capable
Of being the worst version of myself
If I am not vigilant.
That self-awareness does not cancel harm.
And accountability
Is not an event.
It is a lifestyle.

Tonight,
I am not trying to be better than yesterday.
I am just trying
To be honest about the day before.

They say time heals all wounds—
But they leave out
That time also exposes them.
Time unzips the scars,
Holds up the mirror,
And dares you to flinch.

I flinch.
But I stay.

Because if survival is the goal,
Then reflection is the tuition.
You pay it with shame,
Humility,
And tears that taste like truth.

I was better last night
Because I had not looked in the mirror yet.
But tonight,
I see myself—
Bruised, brilliant,
Complicated and culpable.
And somehow,
Still worthy of applause.

Because perfection was never the measure.
Presence was.
Because redemption is not a thunderclap—
It is a whisper that returns every morning
Asking,
“Will you try again?”

And I will.
Not to be better than last night,
But to be braver than the night before.