I still feel like I’m out at sea. The vertigo hasn’t let up, but I can feel the promises of sun and clear skies after the storm, like the ocean is slowly remembering peace.
During a massive storm, it’s hard to remember that conditions change. The rough seas, the constant rise and fall, debris flying everywhere—it all seems relentless. It’s nearly impossible to focus on the calm that will inevitably follow.
But no matter how battered and defeated you become during the tempest, daylight breaks and stillness is restored.
I’ve been doing everything I can to keep my ship from sinking, which in reality looks like running back and forth, patching this leak and securing that loose rope. To an experienced sailor, this would appear as crisis management and chaos. They would ask why the preparation wasn’t done before the storm hit, why I hadn’t taken a breath to think more clearly amid the gale.
It’s not judgment—it’s genuine concern from the sailors’ perspective. And I understand it. But part of me became so consumed by wondering how long the storm would last, or if it would even end, that I forgot to apply the knowledge I possessed that could have helped me weather it all with greater skill.
I think the storm has passed now, but there’s so much to clean up. The deck needs to be dried, rigging needs repair. There are pieces and fragments scattered that must come back together to be whole again. But that’s expected. It’s the natural aftermath when all you could do was fight to survive the angry seas.
The most crucial realisation right now is that storms don’t last forever.
There may be another one approaching in the future, but none are eternal. They end, and those clear skies represent a newness in clarity that feels invigorating.
I’m learning to steady myself, not to run around frantically trying to address everything at once. I’m discovering that panic causes more damage than facing the storm unprepared but with composure.
The sea holds time differently, and I’m trying to hold myself that way, too.
