Hold On To You

Let me start from the beginning. Maybe it’ll make more sense if I write it down. There is something building in my chest. Slow. Mounting on electrical pulses, surging and receding without warning. I tried the breathing techniques. In. Out. In. Out. Inhale. Hold. Release. Ten minutes later, I’m back where I started. Fear like a closed fist pressing hard against my chest. I was fired. Removed like a criminal, escorted to the perimeter beneath the subliminal DO NOT ENTER hanging from an invisible sign on the door. I’d never been fired before. Never branded a failure. The ground beneath your feet feels surreal. This walk is not yours. This has to belong to someone else, not you. I keep going no matter the chasm between where I begin and the satisfaction of finishing. I keep going. Then—not. It took months of frantic thoughts and extended naps to find a rhythm in my new walk. Pushing myself away from the soothing taste of chocolate chips and macaroons, the food noise slowly shrank beneath a new passion. Or maybe resurfaced. Writing. Handling each piece like a visitor needing care and attention. They became the friend that allowed me to grow again. To follow the trail to the end. I cannot fail myself. I can only grow. Write better—or in my case, write real. Here, satisfaction took on a new face. Peace. Now it doesn’t feel the same. I will start a new job soon, and I can’t breathe again. The fear of being externally judged, pulled apart, and discarded tightens the spaces where air should pass. I try to exhale slowly. To sit on my bike, distracted. To walk with my headphones on, stopping when the playlist does. That’s the thing, though. It ends. I have to face it. A year of walking and writing at my own pace, without caring for eyes looking back, is ending. I have to remember to smile when I don’t want to. To shake hands and pretend interest in conversations that sometimes feel more measured than kind. The days ahead hold no peace, only pieces of quiet that never stay. Fleeting, like the thought that I will remain safe forever. Still— I will try again. I will sit within myself and my writing and hold onto the center: the truth that entered and flowed out in every piece I’ve ever written. I will hold onto it and try to shape every moment going forward. It should not be about anything else but what truly matters. I’m good enough for me.