You cling to the edges of me,
pull at the frayed threads of who I was,
whisper that I am losing something—
but isn’t change always a kind of loss?
I stand between doorways,
one foot in the past, one reaching forward,
the space between them stretching, aching,
a bridge made of uncertainty.
You tell me to turn back,
to stay where it’s familiar,
where I know the shape of every shadow.
But I am learning that fear and growth
wear the same face at first.
That to step forward is to grieve
and to bloom all at once.
So whisper if you must—
I will still walk on.