Quicksand

The ground looks solid at first.

Flat.

Steady.

Dependable.

After the fall, after the weight, after the mind underwater, I want to believe I’ve landed somewhere stable — somewhere I can stand, even if I can’t rise. But the moment I put my full weight down, the earth shifts beneath me.

Not dramatically.

Not violently.

Just enough to steal my balance.

The ground gives way.

It doesn’t crack.

It loosens.

And suddenly I’m sinking.

Quicksand isn’t dangerous because it pulls you under.

It’s dangerous because it pretends to be solid.

That’s what this part of the Ground feels like — a betrayal of footing. A surface that looks safe until I try to stand on it. A stability that dissolves the moment I need it.

The first sensation is the slip — the subtle, sickening drop of losing an inch of height without moving. My stomach lurches. My breath catches. My body tenses instinctively, trying to find something firm to push against.

There is nothing firm.

The second sensation is the tightening.

Quicksand doesn’t swallow.

It holds.

The more I try to lift my foot, the more the ground grips it.

The more I try to shift my weight, the deeper I sink.

The more I try to move, the more the earth pulls.

It’s not aggression.

It’s physics.

Quicksand responds to effort with resistance.

It answers struggle with constriction.

It punishes movement with depth.

That’s what this chapter of my mind feels like — the quiet panic of realizing that trying harder makes everything worse.

The third sensation is the panic of stillness.

Not frantic panic — frozen panic.

I know that if I thrash, I’ll sink faster.

I know that if I fight, I’ll go deeper.

I know that if I try to escape, the ground will tighten around me.

So I stay still.

Stillness becomes survival.

Stillness becomes strategy.

Stillness becomes the only thing keeping me from disappearing completely.

But stillness is its own kind of terror.

Because while I’m not sinking fast, I’m still sinking.

Slowly.

Invisibly.

Inexorably.

The fourth sensation is the isolation.

Quicksand doesn’t just trap the body — it traps the voice.

Calling out feels pointless.

Explaining feels impossible.

Even forming the words feels like sinking deeper.

People above the surface see me standing.

They don’t see the ground swallowing my ankles.

They don’t see the tightening around my calves.

They don’t see the effort it takes just to stay upright.

From the outside, I look still.

From the inside, I’m fighting not to disappear.

My children sense it before anyone else.

They move closer.

They watch my steps.

They speak softly, as if loudness might make me sink faster.

They don’t know the physics of quicksand.

But they know the physics of me.

The fifth sensation is the exhaustion.

Not from movement — from the lack of it.

Holding still takes strength.

Holding still takes focus.

Holding still takes everything I have.

The quicksand doesn’t care about my intentions.

It doesn’t care about my responsibilities.

It doesn’t care about my willpower.

It only cares about gravity.

And gravity always wins.

The final sensation is the resignation — not giving up, but acknowledging the truth:

I cannot climb out of quicksand by force.

I cannot rise by effort.

I cannot escape by will.

The ground that betrayed me is the same ground I must learn to navigate.

Quicksand doesn’t kill.

It immobilizes.

It keeps me alive, but stuck.

Present, but unable to move.

Visible, but unable to rise.

This is the Ground.

Not solid.

Not stable.

Not safe.

A place that looks like earth

but behaves like water

and traps like gravity.

A place where I am held in place by the very thing that should hold me up.

A place where stillness is survival

and movement is surrender.

A place where I am learning, slowly, painfully,

that the ground is not always ground.