At Dawn, We Exhale

At dawn, the world was quiet enough to hear her own breath. She sat by the water’s edge, the mist curling around her ankles like something alive. Behind her lay the life she’d held together piece by piece. A frame she’d built from fear and routine. Before her, a ship waited.

It wasn’t grand, nor certain of its course. Its sails trembled as if unsure they deserved the wind.

She closed her eyes and exhaled. Her shadow, ever faithful, ever present, sat beside her.

“Release,” it whispered.

There was an ache in her chest, a familiar pull toward what was safe, what was known. But something inside her shifted. The frame she’d kept herself in began to crack, the edges softening in the dawn light. She realized her worth had never lived in perfection, or completion, but in the courage to begin again.

The ship groaned against its tether, eager.

“There’s a story to tell,” her shadow murmured. “And the sea is listening.”

She inhaled, slow and steady. The horizon blushed with color, a promise rather than a warning. She could not know where the ship would go, or if it would return. But she understood now that some journeys are not about destinations. Instead, they are about becoming the kind of person who dares to depart.

So she stood, unclasped the rope, and let the tide decide.

Her shadow lingered only long enough to say,

“There were troubles you’ve already overcome. It’s okay to let go.”

And as the ship drifted toward the rising sun, she felt it

the faint hum of faith,

the soft weight of release,

and the knowing that dawn was, indeed, coming.