“A ship is always safe at shore, but that’s not what it’s built for.” — wethinkdeeply
It’s safe at shore from storms, winds, and the disorientation of being lost. But a ship that stays still for long enough begins to rust, its hull becoming a home for barnacles and decay. The very structure built for movement slowly deteriorates in stillness.
It’s a different kind of danger masquerading as safety.
What if risk isn’t a threat, but a form of alignment with what you were built for? What if the real danger isn’t the open sea—with its wind, crashing waves, and harsh elements—but the slow corrosion that comes from refusing to move?
When a ship is out at sea, it’s fulfilling its purpose. There’s a captain and crew who understand their vessel, who’ve studied the charts and prepared for the journey. They have direction despite the possibilities of danger. And through every voyage, those guiding the ship are exposed to the uncertainty of their path. They don’t know what lies ahead until they reach it, yet they sail anyway.
Purpose and fear always travel together.
When we face fear of the unknown, we might remember that without fear, purpose cannot exist. Our purpose becomes greater and more valuable the more we move toward it, not in spite of our worries, but through the act of facing them.
I thought I was moving into a season of being a ship at shore, seeking safety, stillness, and respite. But perhaps what I mistook for rest was actually stagnation.
I’ve disembarked from one ship that was sinking, yes. That took courage. But now I find myself standing on the dock of a vessel that’s been fueled and prepared, ready to explore uncharted waters.
The question isn’t whether the journey will be arduous. It will be. The question is whether I’m willing to embrace my fear enough to step aboard, to trust that I was built for this journey, not for the shore.
Because a ship in harbour might be safe from storms, but it will never discover what it was truly made for. And neither will I, if I stay where it’s comfortable.
