I thought there would be something after this.
Another answer. Another shift. Another becoming.

But instead, there was just… this.

Standing on the cliffs,
looking out at the sea,
waiting for puffins
with beaks full of fish for their young.

I had arrived at being.
And it felt good.

The sea air will hit my face,
and for a moment,
I’ll feel more alive
than I ever have before.

I have known heartache.
Decades of searching for answers
to the question:
what is wrong with me?

I have known joy, too —
in learning there was never anything wrong at all.
Just difference.
Just a mind that works its own way.

The joy softened.
And grief followed.

For the child, the teenager,
the young woman
who lived so much of her life
just surviving.

And then —
something else.

Admiration.
Because she never stopped.
Because even then,
there was hope in her.

I met her again,
my inner child.
And we healed,
together.

I booked us a trip.
To see the puffins.
The first time I will leave home
in twenty years.

That was where I found it —
not relief,
not understanding,

but excitement.

Real excitement.
About living.

And then, quietly,
the question came:

What now?

Integration complete.
Nothing left to solve.

So what do we do?

We live.

This is where life begins.
In moments that mean something.
In days that don’t need fixing.

No more searching.
No more trying to become.

Just this.

This is it then.

No fanfare.
No grand arrival.

Just peace.

And I like sitting
and feeling it.

— Frost ❄️