For me, it wasn’t just a tragedy. It was as if the entire universe had been pulled out from under me.
I was pregnant at the time. But the shock, the grief—it was too much. I lost the baby a few weeks later.
After that, I couldn’t even look at the ocean. The same waves we once sailed together now felt like a grave that had swallowed my entire life. For three years, I avoided the shoreline, any mention of sailing, even the smell of saltwater. I thought I’d never go back.
Life became something I simply endured. I went to work, came home, and drifted through my days in a numb haze. Friends tried to reach me, but I kept my distance. Smiles felt foreign, laughter almost cruel.
Then, one afternoon in early spring, my psychologist leaned forward during one of our sessions and said gently:
“Clara, what if you tried to see the sea again? Not as a grave, but as a part of yourself you once loved.”
His words startled me. I hadn’t realized that by avoiding the sea, I was avoiding life itself. That night, I lay in bed thinking about the way the wind used to play with my hair on deck, how the sunlight would turn the water into molten silver. Maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop running.
