I always thought falling would feel so difficult. That it might look something like knuckles clenched white, a hard surrendering of the will, and a giant leap off of a tall cliff hanging over a towering height you can’t even see the bottom of. 

It never occurred to me the most formative moments in life might start incrementally--those tiny steps that lead to the big leap. That maybe the biggest moments don’t always need to come with an announcement. Maybe they could look something like the little breaths or the tiny everyday steps in between. 

Always thought change must be dramatic, never gradual. It must show itself in word before deed, I'd say. Yet always remembering what I’d rehearsed so many times before just to forget in the moment. 

That it’s the little things. It’s the propensity to walk alone sometimes or to go in another direction. The tendency to see things differently than you ever have before. 

The proclivity to open your eyes to truths you’ve yet beheld, and to be held by them. To let them take you by the hand and follow. And what you find—

well, only the best stories can tell. It’s what they’re made of. 

Here there be wonder.