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There’s a moment
right before the fall,
right before the breath catches,
right before the world tilts—
where everything feels sharp.
Edges feel closer.
Steps feel heavier.
And the smallest sound feels like it could break you open.

If that’s where you are,
listen.

Because I know that place.
I’ve lived in that sky-thin margin between “I’m okay”
and
“I can’t do this anymore.”

And lately, I’ve been walking through the aftermath—
the dust settling, the air heavy,
the world looking like a place I barely recognize.

Day 7 of standing in the rubble
has taught me something unexpected:

You don’t rebuild just with strength.
You rebuild with direction.
With choosing one thing in front of the other.
With choosing forward even when it feels like an insult to your exhaustion.

And the truth I didn’t expect to meet today was this:

Even when everything collapses,
you don’t disappear with it.

The wreckage hasn’t swallowed you.
It’s loud, yes.
It’s everywhere, yes.
But you’re still here—
upright, breathing, blinking at the sunlight sneaking in through gaps that didn’t exist before.

And that counts for something.

Actually…
that counts for a lot.

Because today, for the first time in what feels like centuries,
my mind wandered away from survival.
Away from the constant alarm bells.
Away from “What broke now?” and “What do I fix next?”
And for a few unexpected moments,
my thoughts weren’t about how hard it’s been
or how tired I am.

And that—
that tiny shift—
was proof that healing doesn’t announce itself.
It doesn’t show up with trumpets or banners.
It sneaks in quietly,
like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

So if you’re there—
at the edge, or in the rubble,
or some strange place in between—
hear this:

You are allowed to pause.
Not collapse—pause.
You are allowed to take a day,
take a moment,
take a step back without surrendering the whole fight.

Stepping away isn’t quitting.
Sometimes it’s the only way back to yourself.

And when you return—
because you will—
you’ll notice something I’m noticing now:

The landscape is still broken,
yes,
but your vision isn’t.

You start to see not just what fell apart
but what could still rise.
Not just what hurt
but what survived.
Not just what you lost
but what still answers when you call your own name.

So this is for the one standing on the edge—
for the one knee-deep in the aftermath—
for the one who thinks the story has ended here:

It hasn’t.

Edges aren’t endings.
Rubble isn’t ruin.
And today—
this strange, fragile, unexpected day—
you are proof that the human heart knows how to continue
even when the road doesn’t.

Stand here as long as you need.
Breathe.
Look around.
Then lift your eyes,
just enough to notice the horizon again.

You don’t have to walk across it yet.
You just have to know
it’s still there.

And so are you.