let it be over

Fear, a sneaky bastard
infiltrating every thought
sapping joy, it shows no mercy
overtaken, ready or not.

Fear, a hellish meal
push that plate away
stomp, scream, shore up your mind
overcome, this cannot stay

Fear, the grandest canyon
peace on the other side
jump on off, open the chute
over it, you’ll meet life



that hand

I jump three times and then hit the open air.

Falling into that perfect dive off the high board.
I slice the water, straight down to bottom. Execute the flip…
But I don’t come up.
A strong hand is holding me down, pressing on my head.
I fight. I struggle, past denial. I hold my breath. I stay calm. I think.
And then I push, but that hand wants what it wants. I am stuck.
I move past the panic, past the fear, past the primal instinct to simply breathe.

I think.

The hand that holds me down is my nemesis…

And, somehow, also my comfort.

I move past the thinking. Until I only feel. I feel the burn in my lungs and the suffocating weight of the water.

The strong will to break surface resurrects. I oblige, and give another struggle.

But that hand… That hand keeps me still… Forcing my compliance.
I close my eyes, knowing I cannot win. I command the world to go dark. I relax. I give in.

But now, I want that hand to push me further down. I want that hand to keep me here until I am nothing.

I sink, sink, sink… Below the bottom…

Underneath everything there is.

In this place, there is no need for oxygen, no need for thought, no need for anything.

Except for that hand. I need that hand. Because that hand has become my world, my anchor, my demise, my Savior.

My Master.

The sinking, the letting go, the giving over, the death… It is all the same.

It is all peace.
And the very moment that the water steals my life, is the same moment the hand yanks me to the surface.

That hand doesn’t leave my head. That hand has ultimate control. That hand decides my fate. Forever. Plunging me into the depths or lifting me into the clouds.

That hand.

This life.

It is time.


To live.


*photo found on Pinterest with no credit given*

the stool

It took all day to come up with something that REALLY reminded me of submission. My head isn’t in a good place with this. But as things do, it came to me when I wasn’t even thinking about it. 

This rickety, old, busted up thing is my favorite. 

It reminds me of the beginning and the end, of love and hurt, of pain and soothing. It reminds me of our old closet and the awakenings that happened there, but also the tears and struggle. It makes me sad to remember, but also happy. 

It is a physical reminder that even when things feel broken and irredeemable, there can still be hope. If it happened once, it can happen again. Good. And bad. 

Trusting, especially when you feel the most alone. Surrendering the fear. Embracing the current.

This is submission.

Happy New Year!