A Slow Blink

On waiting, readiness, and the in-between

Last year, I began writing poetry as a way to give shape to feelings I didn’t yet have language for. This morning, I reread something I wrote five months ago. In many ways, it still resonates—just differently now.

“Seeking a lone spark—just one surge, to light up the path.”

The first half of 2025 was a season of survival. Surgery. My husband’s stay in inpatient treatment. Growing financial debt. Living out of a suitcase. A messy divorce. Finding a place for my animals and me to land. By July, I was finally in my own place—no longer living in constant fight-or-flight.

As the months passed, something softened. Creativity returned. Space for myself opened. I began working through ideas of art and purpose in ways I had been blocked from for years. I’ve worked hard to nurture relationships in spaces I want to be part of, to keep showing up for my business and my work.

And still, I find myself waiting.

Despite my attempts to stay grounded and mindful, fear lingers—especially around the future and my own self-inflicted definitions of success. It feels like my work is seen and affirmed, yet not fully invested in. I follow up. I nurture. I hold space. I wait.

The waiting still feels like stuckness most days.
Like I’m ready, and nothing is answering back.

But if you’re here too—
hovering in this same space—
I’m glad we’re not alone in it.

---

9/30/25

This black space
jammed with stars,
splintering past,
snagging the dark,
and then—
the slowest blink.
My dry, weighted eyes
wrestle against
blurred, unraveling
beams of light.
Seeking a lone
spark—just one surge
to light up the path
of my heavy, dragging feet.
They flicker and fade
shooting by,
gone faster than I can see.
Still, I wait.
Shuffling through the void.