What We Chase

I’ve hunted many things—

not with bow or blade,

but with the trembling hands of someone

who thought finding meant fixing.

I chased love like light through the trees,

always a few steps behind its warmth,

always mistaking shimmer for sun.

Some days, the forest was quiet enough

to hear my own breath—

ragged, desperate,

holy.

I mistook the stillness for surrender,

but it was teaching me

that the chase isn’t about the catch.

It’s about what’s revealed

in the running—

the shedding of noise,

the learning of patience,

the moment I realize

I am the thing being pursued

by something greater

and far less afraid.

Now, when the morning breaks,

I don’t reach for what’s ahead.

I stay.

I listen for the echo

of what was never lost.

And in that pause,

I understand:

The real hunt

was never for love,

or peace,

or meaning.

It was for the courage

to stop running.