What I Know Now
After everything, what remains is the quiet wisdom of staying and becoming.
After all the stories—
the ones about loss and silence,
about not belonging, not being believed, not being held—
there is still this.
You are here.
Not because everything worked out.
Not because you figured it all out.
But because something in you kept choosing to stay.
The world doesn’t always make room gently.
Workplaces miss us.
Relationships fail us.
Systems overlook us.
Bodies break down.
Language disappears.
Certainty slips through our fingers.
And still—
we adapt.
Not in the glossy, inspirational way people like to celebrate,
but in the quiet, human way that actually counts.
We learn when to stop fixing.
When to bend instead of break.
When to let go of what cannot hold us.
When to rest without permission.
When to name harm.
When to choose ourselves without needing approval.
That is not weakness.
That is wisdom.
What these stories hold—when you read them together—is not despair.
It’s discernment.
The ability to tell the difference between what costs you and what nourishes you.
Between belonging and tolerance.
Between survival and living.
Between being needed and being valued.
Water teaches us this final truth:
You don’t have to be loud to move forward.
You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy.
You don’t have to arrive all at once to be on your way.
You are allowed to take up space.
You are allowed to leave what hurts you.
You are allowed to change your mind.
You are allowed to begin again.
Again and again and again.
If you are reading these stories and see yourself reflected—
know this:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are not alone.
You are becoming.
And becoming is not something you rush.
It’s something you tend.
Slowly.
Honestly.
Sip by sip.
That is the art of drinking water.
And you are already practicing it. 💧