Sometimes you find yourself
standing on the threshold of land and sea,
wondering how you got there
and what you’re supposed to do now.

It’s not the first time you’ve been here,
though the shape of the shoreline has changed.
The tide always moves differently,
the waves never break in the same rhythm twice.
You’ve noticed that much.

Behind you, the land is solid,
its weight pressing against your back—
the memory of footsteps,
the miles you’ve carried,
the people who spoke in voices
that still echo in your mind.
Some were kind.
Some weren’t.

Ahead, the sea.
Wide and restless.
It doesn’t care for what you’ve left behind.
It doesn’t care about you at all.
And maybe that’s the hardest part.
Or maybe it’s the easiest.

You dig your feet into the wet sand,
as if looking for answers in the sediment.
But the sand gives way,
like everything else.
And the question still hangs there:
What now?

You could turn back.
You’ve done it before.
The land is familiar, if unkind,
and there’s comfort in the known shape of suffering.

You could step forward,
let the sea swallow you whole.
Not in surrender,
but in the hope
that maybe the water holds something
you’ve been missing.

Or you could stand here awhile,
letting the wind push at your shoulders,
letting the spray sting your face,
letting yourself feel what it’s like
to be caught between two worlds
without the need to choose—
not yet.

Because sometimes the hardest thing
is not moving.
Sometimes the answer comes in the waiting,
in the pause between tides,
in the sound of waves
breaking against who you were,
reshaping who you might become.

And so you stand,
wondering how you got here
and what you’re supposed to do now.
Not realizing, perhaps,
that standing is already enough.