i read this poem once. song by george szirtes. it’s about the power of people coming together. but that’s not what struck me. what did was the first line: “nothing changes until something does.” and i remember repeating the line over and over again, not just because it was beautiful, but because it was true.

life is not perfect, and so one day you find yourself in the hardest moment of your life. tears come more often than smiles. it rains more than it shines. and you find yourself drowning — because that is just how life is.

and at first you don’t even realise it, but this becomes the new normal, a routine. you’re still alive, but you’re not. you’re no longer part of the living, just existing. everything feels slightly further away than it should, like you’re watching your own life happen through glass.

after a while, the drowning stops feeling like panic. it just feels like a weight has settled on your chest, keeping you from coming up for air. and oh, do you miss the taste of fresh air.

you stop fighting against the waves. not because it gets better, but because you get used to it. the weight doesn’t surprise you anymore, it just exists there with you.

and over time, everything starts to feel further away. even your own reactions. like you’re slightly delayed to your own life. you start building days around it. you still go to places, still talk to people, still exist in all the normal ways — but something inside you stays behind.

you learn how to function inside it. how to smile in conversations that don’t reach you. how to say “i’m fine” without thinking about it. how to make it look like nothing is wrong, even when everything feels slightly too heavy to hold.

and the strangest part is how normal it feels, until suddenly it doesn’t. until something small reminds you that this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.

a moment. a pause. something that doesn’t fit anymore.

and after your daily cry, you catch yourself in the mirror. just briefly. just long enough to notice that you look like someone you don’t fully recognise anymore. and it reaches a point where you stop thinking about how deep it is, and start wondering how long you’ve been holding your breath. not because you planned to. just because at some point, you forgot you could let go. and one day you stop thinking about how deep it is, and start thinking about how long you’ve been letting it take you under.

and that’s when something shifts.

not out of it. just… in it, differently. like the depth doesn’t feel infinite anymore — just there.

and it doesn’t feel like anything is changing at first. there’s no clarity, no sudden understanding.

just a feeling that something has moved slightly, even if everything still looks the same. and then you remember: nothing changes until something does, even if what changes is you.

and at first, that doesn’t feel like strength. it feels small. almost unimpressive. like choosing not to disappear in the same way you used to is not really a change at all.

but it is.

because there is a moment where sinking becomes a choice, not a state. where you realise you are still in it, still surrounded by it, but not entirely belonging to it in the same way anymore. and sometimes being okay looks like standing still in deep water.

not moving forward. not escaping. just… standing.

and so you start learning how to stand in it. not all at once. not perfectly. not even confidently. just enough to stay above the water when it rises again. learning how to stand in deep water.