Unmoored

Everything precious turns to stone.

It’s been awhile. 

I want to catch you up. 

In short, I quit my job, moved home, started a novel, got a job at a bookstore, went on a writer's retreat, moved to New York City, started a second novel, started a small business on Etsy, and continued writing. In long–which is the reason why you're here–I have had an extremely challenging few years. 

I was ill-prepared for life after graduation. Admittedly, my expectations were unrealistic. I thought I'd instantaneously be successful, find security, and be on a promising path towards more success and security.

Shortly thereafter, my castles came crumbling down. 

I could point to my experience in one way or another and find the fault lines, find the cracks where the danger peeked through, find the places I’d helplessly duck-taped, convincing myself the wall would hold. 

I could tell you that when the water seeped through the cracks, I searched frantically for stronger tape. I was looking for something immortal, a bandage to hide a gaping wound. I was looking for something that didn’t exist, even as I refortified each crack, the tape bulging from the flush wall. 

I could describe the way I buried anchors, one after another, dense with iron and steel, letting them sink deep into the sand below. Drifting in an ocean full of unknowns, I hurried to remain moored. 

First it was a job. Then a relationship. Then a new city, another move. Anything to anchor me, to keep me safe in tumultuous waters as I stared out at the horizon far, far away. It didn’t matter how many times my anchor lost its grip from the pressure, I would repeat the process with the thick rope and steel anchor, sure this one was stronger than the last. 

What I didn’t realize was that the anchors I lowered were negating the real issue: I was sinking. The ship I’d sailed was broken. There were holes letting the water in. I would drown before my anchor even reached the ocean floor. 

It was natural for me to desire security after graduating. What I didn’t realize, in my desperate attempts to remain moored, was that I abbreviated everything in my life to nothing more than a tool that has to sink so that I might float. 

Everything precious turned to stone, gravity dragging it further into the dark. 

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The first time I called myself a writer was in the fall of 2021. I remember the thought slamming into me like a wave; anything said aloud—the truth. I began a Substack when the thought had stewed enough to become something tangible and real. Over the next year I practiced the craft, experimenting with form and style like a toddler taking their first steps. It wasn’t like I hadn’t written anything before—I’d written plenty—but this time, it latched onto me and wouldn’t let go. I found inspiration everywhere: the trees, strangers, deep-seated memories. Life was my muse and I took advantage. 

And then, like I’ve done before and like I’m sure to do again, I made writing my anchor. I loosened the thick rope attached to the heavy anchor, hauled it over the side of my boat, and watched as it sunk.

The precious craft turned to stone.

Writing did not bring me security. It did not bring me any kind of surety nor steady waters. I expected it to save a sinking ship. The pressure broke the rope and the anchor was lost in the dark waters below.

I had to find my way back to writing, though I’m not sure if I’ve made it yet. I’m publishing on Substack again, yes, but I publish with the fear that the anchor I let sink is irretrievable. 

It is from this space I write to you today. My boat has sunk. I’ve turned everything precious to stone. I’m navigating uncharted waters without anything to keep me afloat. There is fear, anxiety, and uncertainty. Yet there is also a tiny whisper of hope beneath the waves, urging me to continue. 

Having anchors is not a bad thing. They are a result of our desire to remain rooted, steady, and safe. They are instinctual, natural. Where the danger arrives is in the unrealistic expectation that this person, that job, or this city will save you from all you're afraid of. False idols rust, too. 

It is only when I recognized the patterns of my behavior, when I realized that I was hauling precious things off my sinking boat, did I realize that there was no anchor—real nor metaphorical—that would succeed.

Eventually I might hope to build another boat, one that won’t sink. I think about the boat that is now under my treading, submerged body, decaying next to all the anchors that’d promised certainty. It is only when I’m submerged that I see bubbles float up around my body and pop once they meet the surface. I learn that these bubbles are dark oxygen, produced during a mysterious interaction between the steel of the anchors below me and the chemical composition of the seafloor. The pop, pop of the dark oxygen reminds me to inhale deep and rest in the truth, though often ignored, that though everything precious may turn to stone, every stone may become precious again.

I take a deep breath.

Until next time,

Kiera