On hovering at the edges of your own story, and daring to step inside. 🖋️
Some stories start before you realize you’re telling them.
Before the first page, there’s a pause.
It’s that in-between space where you’re not in the story yet, but you’re circling around it. Hovering at the edges. Wondering how to start. You’re holding the pen, but your hand still shakes.
I lived there for a long time, in that strange limbo between what ended and what hadn’t yet begun. The world around me kept moving: work, errands, the steady rhythm of normal life that didn’t care if I was ready or not. I did what I had to, but I wasn’t really in the story. I was watching from the margins, waiting for a sign that it was safe to begin again.
The truth is, there’s no signal. No clear line between before and after. You just start to notice the smallest stirrings: a moment that feels lighter, a laugh that doesn’t ache. You start to say yes again. You make weekend plans. You lace up your shoes and run a little farther. You start writing things down, not because you’ve figured it out, but because you want to remember that you’re still here.
That’s what the before looks like: not silence, but the quiet work of coming back to yourself. It’s the stretch before the first page turns, the deep breath before the first line appears.
Because the first page doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to begin. It’s the moment you finally stop circling and decide to step in, messy handwriting and all.
And I think that’s where I’ve been — not behind, not lost, just in that necessary in-between. The part before the first page, where life starts taking shape again, even if the story hasn’t fully begun.
This post is part of my New Chapters series — reflections on rebuilding, resilience, and writing new parts of my story.
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