I’m on an edge /

I can feel a tipping point, an edge so present that it brings a whoosh of thrill in my chest, reminding me of the other times I experienced this sensation. Like when I studied abroad in Ecuador when I was 21. Or when I moved out to Colorado in my little red car and rented a tiny little cabin in the mountains by myself. Or when Tony and I bought one-way tickets to Buenos Aires and left months later from Bogota, or when my sister and I started working together, and when we stopped working together, too. Taking my daughter to Paris, taking my son to Thailand, doing an anonymous interview with a world-class photojournalist during a humanitarian crisis.

The texture of this feeling is familiar. And I understand that it shows up when things within you that are about to shift, to change, to tip forward – the feeling comes as you realize you're terrified, but you're gonna do it anyway.

It’s just that this time I don’t know yet exactly what I'll tip into. Or maybe I do, and I'm still too scared to claim it.