Becoming Whispers | The Tide That Doesn't Apologize

I'm sitting at the edge of the lake this afternoon, and the water is moving.

Not dramatically. Just... breathing. In and out. Small waves lapping at the rocks near my feet.

The sun is hot on my shoulders. The air smells like pine and wet stone.

And then it comes.

That pull. That heat. That wave of something I can't name, desire, maybe, or longing, or just... aliveness.

It moves through my chest, down into my belly, spreading through my limbs like warmth.

I used to brace against this feeling. Tense my body. Try to make it mean something or make it stop.

But I've felt this before.

I know what it is now.

I let it come.

I feel the heat rise in my face, the way my breath deepens, the way my skin seems to wake up all at once.

The water keeps moving. In and out. Patient.

And I realize: this is what tides do.

They don't apologize for coming in. They don't resist going out.

They just move. Natural. Inevitable. Part of the rhythm.

I watch the water lap against the rocks, and I feel the wave inside me crest and then... soften.

Not disappear. Just settle. Like it was never a problem to begin with.

My shoulders drop. My hands rest in my lap.

The lake doesn't ask me what it meant. It doesn't need me to understand it or control it or make it into something useful.

It just moves.

And so do I.

I sit there a little longer, feeling the sun, watching the water, letting whatever needs to move through me... move.

And when I stand to leave, I'm lighter.

Not because I solved anything.

Because I didn't try to.