What it means to be loved.
The ocean rises without asking permission. It never does .A ripple dances across the surface and we think we understand it, but the tide beneath is a world we cannot measure, and it does not care who is ready, who is clinging, who is pretending to float.
Sometimes it swells slowly, a deceit, whispering that we can step aside, that holding our breath will save us.
Other times it crashes without warning, a wall of water dragging everything down, and the panic in our chests is drowning before the wave even lands.
I know this story.
People will look at you and say: you are the problem. Not a person, not a life in motion, but a fault in the way you float, the way you gasp, the way you suffer. It is you.
Empathy is folded into pity, reshaped into blame. And again. And again.
Look at the currents, the undertow, the jagged rocks hidden beneath glassy illusions. Calm is a trick, a borrowed belief; the tide is never manageable, not for long.
Turning from the wave sometimes lets it crash unseen, leaving scars you cannot map, losses you cannot name by numbers. And neither can they.
Sometimes the only way is to let it pass over you, to let the water claim its space, to breathe through it anyway, feeling every drag, every pull, every relentless pull at your chest. It is all real.
You do not have to ride above the wave for love. You do not have to conquer it. You only have to trust that the ocean, however immense, cannot erase what is in your lungs, the truth in your heart, or the reality of your experience, and neither can they.
[media=https://youtu.be/od7m8G1Snkc]
Sometimes it swells slowly, a deceit, whispering that we can step aside, that holding our breath will save us.
Other times it crashes without warning, a wall of water dragging everything down, and the panic in our chests is drowning before the wave even lands.
I know this story.
People will look at you and say: you are the problem. Not a person, not a life in motion, but a fault in the way you float, the way you gasp, the way you suffer. It is you.
Empathy is folded into pity, reshaped into blame. And again. And again.
Look at the currents, the undertow, the jagged rocks hidden beneath glassy illusions. Calm is a trick, a borrowed belief; the tide is never manageable, not for long.
Turning from the wave sometimes lets it crash unseen, leaving scars you cannot map, losses you cannot name by numbers. And neither can they.
Sometimes the only way is to let it pass over you, to let the water claim its space, to breathe through it anyway, feeling every drag, every pull, every relentless pull at your chest. It is all real.
You do not have to ride above the wave for love. You do not have to conquer it. You only have to trust that the ocean, however immense, cannot erase what is in your lungs, the truth in your heart, or the reality of your experience, and neither can they.
[media=https://youtu.be/od7m8G1Snkc]
