Can chickens even swim?

I went to the Oregon coast, stared at the waves until they swallowed the sun, and watched elk clop along the beach. I didn't know it at the time, but something was already shifting inside me. It started with little choices—day trips out of the city, loosening my chokehold on being "the girl with the mental illness," letting new faces into my life. Quiet rebellions, each one. And with every rebellion, I was etching out a new self, someone the old me would’ve side-eyed.

Depression was like wading through a swamp, thick with the ghosts of who I used to be. I was aware of the fork in the road—either swim through it or let the muck pull me under. I could’ve retreated into old patterns, let the wreckage of a broken marriage shape me into a cautionary tale, let it amplify every fear of being left behind. Or I could use it as a slingshot, propelling me into an unknown future, one my anxious, codependent brain could barely conceive.

Back then, I felt like a chicken with broken bones—bruised and fragile, trying to cross the road, still figuring out why. This is true btw. When their bones break, they grow back stronger, denser. They don’t just mend; they rebuild. That’s what all of this felt like. A slow, painful rebuild.

Now, there’s a hum in my life, a low-frequency buzz of something alive. I’m with a man who worships the wild, the kind of guy who feels more at home under pine trees than a ceiling. He pulls me out of my well-curated cocoon, drags me into the wilderness like a housecat who's never seen grass. I bitch about the bugs, about the cold, but there's this part of me that knows—I need these moments, these collisions with the world. I even bought a pair of rollerblades, just to see what would happen. I’ve made out with the pavement more times than I care to count, but the weird part is, I’m already planning my next ride. Maybe tomorrow.

My friendships have changed too. I’ve started pruning, cutting back the ones who thrive on my pain, the ones who keep things surface-level. Now, I’m surrounded by those who truly get me, who aren’t afraid to plunge into the deep end of our shared reality. It’s like I’m finally building a life that fits, a life I didn’t know I was allowed to ask for.

My relationship with myself is still a work in progress—delicate, like a plant growing in thin soil. I’m learning to mother myself, to say “It’s okay” and believe it. It might not be some grand, sweeping victory, but it’s mine. And maybe that’s enough. For now, anyway. Healing isn’t just about closing wounds; it’s about becoming something new, something with stronger bones.