I was trying to tell my doctor how my depression has changed in the last few months and likened my moments of happiness to a tiny fire, built using just sticks and friction, and a lot of hard work. From time to time I see a little orange glow, but if I blow into it, it disappears.

Believe it or not, that’s progress. Sure, it’s frustrating, but there’s hope just seeing the spark again. I know the warmth and light can’t be too far behind. And while I ponder what metaphorical kindling I need to help my mental health, today I stocked up on actual firewood, a gift from the neighbor of a friend.

I didn’t light a single fire this winter. First, I haven’t had my fireplace inspected in the last few years and, with all the bad luck I had last fall, I decided it wasn’t smart to tempt fate. Second, fires trigger romantic feelings and my newly single self couldn’t stand the thought of anything that might remind me I was dumped. Again.

So, while the end of February may seem like a strange time to stock up on firewood, the timing is perfect for me. My woodpile will serve as both a challenge and a reminder to myself: I won’t feel like this forever. I have many winters ahead of me and whether I share them with someone or spend every one of them alone, I will light a fire again (both inside and outside myself).