Why do we lose perspective?

One of the biggest misconceptions I had after being diagnosed with cancer was that surviving would permanently change the way I saw life.

Not because my problems would disappear. But because gratitude would become automatic.

I thought I’d wake up every morning grateful just to be alive. That a long line wouldn’t bother me, a stressful email wouldn’t ruin my mood, and traffic wouldn’t test my patience.

And for a while, they didn’t.

Then, slowly, life became life again.

I started to realize how quickly I adapt — to the hard things, but also to the good things.

I think about the last thing I was excited to buy.

Maybe it was a new pair of shoes. For a few days — or maybe even a few weeks — I couldn't stop thinking about them. Then, before long, they were just another pair of shoes in my closet.

Or I think about something I spent years working toward. Something I thought would finally make me feel successful. At first, it did. Then, almost without realizing it, it simply became part of my life.

I do the same thing with life itself. I slowly stop noticing the things I once couldn't wait to have.

When I was in the hospital, my only wish was to be healthy. Nothing else really mattered.

As my health has returned, my life has filled back up with new wishes. I want this essay to resonate. I want every meal to be amazing. I want my coffee to taste just right. I want every weekend to feel memorable.

How could those things occupy the same mind that once only wished for health?

I don't naturally compare today's wishes to the ones I had from a hospital bed. I respond to what's in front of me.

The extraordinary slowly becomes ordinary.

Wanting more seems to return on its own.

Gratitude doesn't.

Gratitude isn't something a diagnosis — or any single event — will permanently give me. It's something I have to practice.

And I'm actively trying to get better at it. I've realized that when I slow down enough to appreciate what's already in front of me, I feel happier with the life I already have.

Most mornings, I try not to reach for my phone right away. I remind myself of what once felt like a prayer: my health, my family, the ability to walk outside.

Other times, it's simpler than that — lifting my head from my screen to watch the sunrise instead of walking past it, or actually noticing the room I'm sitting in instead of rushing through it.

Those moments are never missing.

My attention is.

Left on autopilot, I stop noticing. I stop appreciating. I forget that the ordinary moments of today are the very things I once hoped for.

Perspective isn't something I'm given once.

It's something I have to return to.

Every single day.

— Kiel