Sea Glass

I love to go to the beach just to think about Moses. The exodus, really, and imagine all the things Moses must have been feeling as he watched the fish frozen in time amidst the walls of water on either side of him, the heavens above and the sea behind and beneath. I love to walk through the water toward the place where the lake embraces the sky and let my palms skate on the surface of the lake. I’m usually not a collector but I’ll peruse the beach’s selection of shells and sea glass, window shopping at this continuously changing display of whatever menagerie of things the tide spits out onto the sand.

I tend to leave the shells alone but I will brake for sea glass, particularly if it’s blue or green. Particularly because it reminds me of myself. And now I’m a shaken can of Limca, questions bubbling to the surface and ready to test the boundaries of the strength of aluminum because there’s so much I need to know. So much I need to know. I want it all. The time is now.

Wanting to know things like “Who were you before you were broken?”


“How long did it take for people to think you were beautiful again?”


“How do you deal with…everything? Anything?”

Because when you’ve been broken, anything is everything.

I rush because when a man keeps his business on a “need-to-know” basis, I need to know. I rush because it’s easier to run away if I never stopped running in the first place. I rush because I feel like maybe if I’m fast enough, you won’t notice that holding a pile of broken glass and holding something whole really don’t feel the same at all. I rush because a flip book looks a whole lot cooler than the stick figure sketches I’ve managed to create in the almost eleven months since I left him. The almost eleven months since I chose me.

I love the ocean, you love the rain. I’m waiting for the ocean to make me beautiful again. There’s something about the way the water

Ebbs and

Flows and

Ebbs and

Flows and slowly, slowly evens out my rough edges but I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to wait until it doesn’t hurt to hold me.

I didn’t want to wait until I could stop running, I just wanted you to chase me. In my life of push and pull and push and pull, the last thing I expected was to fall. The toughest part of all of it, though, is that I can’t be mad at you. It’s not your fault. There’s really no one I can point to, at all.

Time heals, and I need more of it than I think most people understand. Patience comforts, and I need more of it than I think most people can supply. Grace puts broken pieces back together, and I need more of it than is reasonable to expect from anybody.

I trust, though, I trust God because younger me would be amazed at the woman that I’ve become. Even if it hurts to hold me. Even if I throw good things on the floor because it’s safer to be the one who breaks them then to wake up to something beautiful, broken. I trust because I’m a part of the menagerie of what the sea spits out onto the sand, smoothed and healed with each cycle of ebbs and flows and sunrises and sunsets. Not now, but someday. Not never, but amidst the sea of tomorrows because no man is powerful enough to tame the sea and the way it’s healing me. I know I’ll find my peace. And I know whoever he is, he’ll find me.




Divorced, biracial woman in my early 20’s | Editor for Out of the Woods | I write to heal myself and others | Support me at ❤

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Hope Rising

Hope Rising

Divorced, biracial woman in my early 20’s | Editor for Out of the Woods | I write to heal myself and others | Support me at

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