The shape of the year

This is what I wrote while it was still happening. What surfaced. What I chose to stay with instead of running from. The people who showed up. The slow, unglamorous work of returning and becoming.

The early entries sit close to the leaving, and to the chaos right after it. I didn't have the answers yet, but I wrote anyway.

Then the months turn, and the fear loosens into curiosity, and the curiosity into something closer to trust. The white light warms to pink. I stop clinging to permanence, and slowly I stop trying to do it all alone.

By the final entries the writing has gone quieter, almost grateful. The same person, only much further down the path.

Read in order, that change is the real story.