The Long Way Through

The Long Way Through doesn’t begin with answers. It stays where things are still unsettled. I wrote it because there were moments I couldn’t explain, only sit with. Moments where loss and becoming seemed to happen at the same time. Where something was ending, and something else was beginning, even if I wasn’t ready to name it yet.

There were questions I couldn’t solve, so I stayed with them long enough to hear what they were actually asking. Some of what’s written here began there, in confusion that refused to be tidied up. The thoughts move the way real understanding moves: slowly, unevenly, sometimes circling back before finding their footing again. Meaning doesn’t arrive cleanly. It takes its time. It can feel stubborn, distant, or simply quiet. And then one day you notice something sits differently than it used to, as if the weight has shifted without asking permission.

The writing stays close to the bone. It lingers with grief without trying to hurry it along. It holds love without dressing it up or smoothing out its edges. It lets time do what time does: bend, stretch, soften, without pretending anyone comes through untouched. After all, the writing could only follow what life was already doing. Some things alter us in ways we don’t get to approve. Not because they carry wisdom. Not because they arrive at the right time. Simply because they happened, and we were there when they did. What changes isn’t the fact of it. What changes is how much space it’s allowed to take.

So, if these pages find you somewhere along that road, may they keep you company for a while.