I nearly blew it up. I was down, deep in the depths, where the water is black and dank.
Heavy with regret. And I couldn’t find my way up.
Kicking and fighting — sinking lower and lower.
And then I came up.
Not in one forceful push to the surface, filling my lungs with air and spitting water.
But in a slow, sometimes gentle, oftentimes painful, unpredictable, crooked arc.
Up and down and up again until I could breathe.
That’s the scary part. Believing that the breath will come.
That you deserve to let it fill your lungs and return you to life.