Firestorm

What do you do when you are in the middle of a firestorm that won’t stop?

When every time you turn around, something else catches fire.

When every step forward feels like three steps back.

And sometimes it doesn’t even feel like steps back—

it feels like being shoved backwards by a stream of bullets from a firing squad.

When so much feels lost.

Hopeless.

Ridiculously hard.

And there are no right answers.

What do you do when the people around you are running low on oxygen—

still fighting the good fight—

while others are jumping,

and some are standing there, hands shaking, on the verge of pulling their ripcord?

What do you do then?

You hold the center.

You get very, very present with what is right in front of you—

and with the people you can actually reach.

You make a decision.

Or you don’t.

Because sometimes the strongest move isn’t action—

it’s restraint.

It’s letting the surge of emotion pass.

Letting the air clear just enough

so you can see even a fraction more clearly.

You remember that time will pass.

Even this.

That you will make it through—

not quickly, not cleanly, not comfortably—

but you will.

And somewhere underneath all of it—

whether you can feel it in the moment or not—

you hold onto the belief that eventually,

the fire will burn itself out.

Not because you controlled it.

Not because you solved everything perfectly.

But because fires don’t burn forever.

And neither does this.

So you stay.

You accept that it will be hard.

That it will stretch you.

That it may ask more of you than you feel you have to give.

And still—

you show up.

You seek answers where you can.

You take advice when it’s useful.

You move forward, imperfectly,

and adjust as you go.

Not because you’re certain.

Not because you’re unshaken.

But because you’re still here.

Holding the center

while everything burns around you—

trusting that one day,

it won’t.