Wading Past the Pull

Some thresholds don’t announce themselves with trumpets or fire.
They whisper from the mud.
Tug at your ankles when you thought you were standing still.
Call you deeper when you only meant to test the surface.

Wading is not drifting.
It’s deliberate—
a slow, aware movement through what wants to hold you.
Grief, history, silence, shame.
Inherited tides.
Cultural currents that keep pulling us down under the guise of gravity.
But not everything heavy is true.
Not everything binding is meant to be worn.

There’s a moment between sinking and surfacing.
A tension.
A reckoning.
Where you feel the weight and your will.
Where you decide:
Do I move with the undertow of what’s always been,
or do I stay steady in what’s barely begun?

To wade past the pull is to choose discomfort over numbness.
It’s to refuse the familiar trap.
To feel it all and still move forward.
To rise—not by escape, but by depth.
By meeting the sediment of your own becoming
and stirring it awake.

It’s not clean.
It’s not fast.
But it’s yours.
And it’s power.

Because what pulls can’t hold
what’s no longer willing to be kept.