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.

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