Fault Line

Before the shift, there is stillness, heavy with anticipation. You can feel it in your bones, in the air you breathe, though the rupture is still unseen. It moves like a current beneath the surface, invisible, but undeniable. The weight of everything we’ve known, everything we’ve held tight to, begins to press inward—an unspoken pressure that pulls at our deepest fears, our deepest truths.

We don’t realize how tightly we are wound, how much we hold onto what has already begun to unravel. Fear of what might be, of what might fall apart, keeps us tethered to what we know—even if what we know has stopped serving us. We cling to old stories, old ways, old versions of who we are, because they provide the illusion of safety. We brace ourselves, unaware that the real danger lies not in the breaking but in the staying.

And then, it happens. There’s a sharpness, a suddenness, a tearing apart of the fabric that once held everything in place. Everything we thought was permanent, unchangeable, begins to shift. The walls we built to contain ourselves, to define ourselves, crumble. The stories we told ourselves are exposed for what they were—scripts written in ink long before we ever truly questioned them.

But here’s the thing about things falling apart: they create space. They don’t just break—they make room. Not for what was, but for something new. Something raw. Something unshaped, unfixed, and full of potential.

In the mess, in the destruction, there is the raw material for creation. Not creation in the sense of building back the way things were, but something different, something we’ve never known. It’s the unsettling and exhilarating space where we are free from the confines of the past. Where, in the absence of what we were, we can choose what we will be.

Will we rise to meet it, or will we remain rooted in the fragments of what we once were? The ground beneath us is moving—can we feel it?