What time did it get bad?

Ask a sharper question than whether today was bad. Ask what time it got bad. A lot of hard weeks aren't hard weeks. They're the same ninety minutes, seven times over. Maybe it's the hour after work. Maybe four in the afternoon, or Sunday evening, or when the evening goes quiet. Your low may keep a schedule you've never checked.

For the next three days, when it lands, write down the time and one word. It takes eight seconds. There's a good chance a pattern shows up, narrower than you'd guess. Not the whole day. One slice, often the same slice. It's like a creaky stair in a dark house. Once you know which step it is, it stops catching you off guard.

Finding it also stops the worst thing a bad hour does. It testifies against the whole day. By bedtime you'll call the day awful, when most of it was fine and already forgotten. That hour may have belonged to the cigarette once. It camped there and called itself your break. One hour doesn't get to write the review for all the others.

Then put something good in that slot on purpose. A walk, a shower, a call to someone who makes you laugh. Meet the hour instead of enduring it. If the dip spreads across the day or won't lift for weeks, bring in a doctor or a good friend. That's strength. Give God the exact time, whatever yours is. Lord, meet me at four. Most of your day is already yours again. This hour is next.