Shift

The ground feels unfamiliar now—like waking in a body that still remembers an old rhythm but moves to a new song. The world hasn’t changed, yet everything looks different, refracted through a sharper, truer lens. I keep touching the edges of her, surprised that it doesn’t hurt. Change hums under my skin, equal parts terror and electricity.

There are moments I want to crawl backward, to the comfort of what I used to know—even if it kept me small. But then the horizon winks at me, wide and wild, and I feel a trembling kind of awe. To shed an old self, an old certainty, is to risk everything—and yet, what a gift, to risk becoming.

I am learning this new language of selfhood in stuttered syllables. I stumble, I listen, I begin again. The fear doesn’t fade, but it mingles with something luminous—hope, maybe. Or the first breath of freedom. Whatever it is, it carries me forward.

I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow.
But for the first time, uncertainty feels like possibility.