The Second First Time

It had been years since I stepped into the ocean. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid. Somewhere between growing older and growing cautious, I’d convinced myself that salt water had become foreign to my skin. I told myself it wasn’t the same, that I wasn’t the same.

But today, as I stood barefoot on the sand, staring at the endless blue, I realized: I was wrong.

The tide rolled in like it had always done, curling at the edges like a warm invitation. The breeze carried memories on its back—childhood laughter, salt in my hair, my mother’s voice calling from a beach towel. And just like that, something awakened.

I took a step forward.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no violins playing in the background. But it felt like a resurrection. Like I was meeting an old friend who somehow looked exactly the same, yet made me feel entirely new.

The first touch of water on my toes sent shivers up my legs. Not because it was cold, but because it was real. And in that moment, it all came rushing back. The smell, the sting, the rush. The way the ocean humbles you. The way it makes your problems feel so small and your spirit so wide.

And I kept walking.

It wasn’t just about the ocean. It was about everything. The things I had loved. The things I had lost. The versions of myself I had abandoned for the sake of practicality, adulthood, survival. I used to write poetry on napkins in diners. I used to dance barefoot in my living room with no audience and no shame. I used to tell people I loved them without wondering if they’d say it back.

But life happened. Or rather, fear happened. Fear of failing. Fear of being foolish. Fear of being seen in all my rawness.

So I stopped doing the things that made me feel alive.

Until now.

Today, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I let the water swallow my knees, my hips, my chest. I let it pull me under just for a second—just enough to remember that I’m still here, still breathing, still capable of joy.

And it felt like the first time.

I realized then that doing something again doesn’t mean going backward. It means rediscovering it through the lens of who you’ve become. It’s the second first time—not the beginning, but a rebirth.

Like the first time I told a story out loud after years of being silent. My voice cracked at first, but it grew steadier with every sentence. The room didn’t laugh. They listened. And I remembered the power of my own voice.

Or the first time I held someone’s hand again after heartbreak. It wasn’t perfect. My fingers trembled. But the warmth between palms reminded me that healing is not forgetting. It’s choosing to begin again.

We think we only get one first time. But that’s not true. Life is full of them. Every time we dare to return to what we once loved, we’re giving ourselves the chance to feel the spark all over again.

So, here’s what I’ve learned: You’re allowed to return. You’re allowed to start over. You’re allowed to feel like a beginner even if you’ve done it before. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you brave.

Because the second first time requires more courage than the first. The first time, you don’t know what’s coming. The second time, you do. You know the risks. You know the heartache. And still, you go back.

That’s not naivety. That’s resilience.

I stayed in the ocean for what felt like hours, letting the waves rock me into remembering who I used to be. Who I still am, underneath the layers of routine and responsibility.

And when I finally stepped back onto the sand, dripping and breathless, I felt more alive than I had in years.

So maybe you’ve stopped painting. Or singing. Or telling someone how much they mean to you. Maybe you used to dream big and now you just dream of making it through the day.

I get it.

But I’m here to tell you: it’s not too late.

The world is still waiting. Your voice is still inside you. The song still wants to be sung. The pages still want to be written. The hands still want to be held.

It may not be the first time. But it can be the second first time.

And sometimes, that’s even more beautiful.