Some days just weigh heavier than others.
This week has felt like that—heavy in ways I can’t quite name. The kind of weight that settles quietly in your chest and makes everything feel a little foggy, a little slower.
But then, the sea.
Last night, Sarah and I waded into the water as the sun began to melt into the horizon. The air was warm, the tide calm. We didn’t need to say much—we just slipped beneath the surface and let the salt carry it all away.
There’s something about sea swimming that resets me. It doesn’t fix anything, but it softens things. It cools the panic, stills the noise. It reminds me that my body is strong, that my breath is steady, that I am still here.
We laughed, floated, and let the water hold us. For the first time in days, I felt light again.
Whatever it is, I’ll keep returning to the water—because somehow, it always returns me to myself.