Wishful thoughts

The First Step

Jenna stood at the edge of the dock, the soft slap of the water against the wooden planks beneath her feet the only sound that accompanied her thoughts. The sun was setting, casting golden hues across the horizon. A breath of fresh air swept past her, cool and soothing. She could feel it deep in her chest, like a reminder: everything she had been holding on to for so long was finally slipping away.

A year ago, this dock had been the place where her world had started to unravel. Her engagement had fallen apart in the quietest way possible—two people growing apart without shouting, without drama, but with a slow, undeniable fade. It had been mutual, they had said. “We’ll always care for each other, Jenna, but this isn’t where we’re supposed to be.”

In the months that followed, Jenna had hidden away in the apartment she had once shared with Andrew, sifting through their things, her fingers tracing the edges of memories she didn’t quite know how to let go of. She’d held on to the comfort of the familiar, even as it made her restless. Each day felt like a repeat of the one before, like she was walking through life on autopilot. Until the moment when everything changed.

It wasn’t a bold decision. It wasn’t something anyone would call “courageous.” It had started with a quiet conversation with her sister, Maya, who had called, as she often did, asking how she was doing. And, like always, Jenna had said she was “fine,” her voice tight as she tried to avoid the truth. But Maya had seen right through it, gently pulling at the strings of her sister’s walls until Jenna finally broke.

“I don’t want to be stuck here anymore,” she had admitted, her words barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know where to start. It feels like everything I’ve built is just... falling apart.”

Maya, who had always been the brave one, the one who didn’t let fear hold her back, had simply said, “Start somewhere. It doesn’t matter how small. Just do it.”

And so, Jenna had taken her sister’s advice. She signed up for a weekend writing workshop in the city, not because she thought it would solve all her problems, but because it was something different. It was something that had always made her feel alive. Writing had been her first love—the quiet joy of spinning words into stories that could take her anywhere.

That workshop had been a turning point. It was small—just a handful of people in a cozy, sunlit room—but in that space, Jenna had rediscovered a part of herself she had almost forgotten. She had met other people who had, like her, been in the midst of transitions, of reinventions. There had been writers, artists, and even someone who had just moved from across the country to find a fresh start. Jenna had been taken aback by how open and vulnerable everyone had been with their stories, sharing things they hadn’t even shared with their closest friends.

It had been a series of tiny milestones—each word written, each new connection made—that began to shift her perspective. Jenna started writing again, not because she thought she could become a famous author or because anyone would read her work, but because it gave her something that had been missing: a sense of purpose. It was the smallest of starts, but it was a start.

The workshop had ended on Sunday evening with a final reading. Jenna’s hand had trembled as she read her piece aloud—an honest, raw reflection of everything she had been through over the past year. She had felt exposed, vulnerable, and terrified, but when the last sentence had left her lips, the room had erupted in applause. The feeling of having shared something so personal, so raw, had been electric. For the first time in a long while, she had felt seen. And that had been the spark she needed.

Months passed, and Jenna’s life began to shift in small ways. She moved into a new apartment, one that felt like hers from the moment she stepped inside. She found herself taking longer walks by the water, not to escape from something, but because she wanted to be outside, to breathe in the air and feel the pulse of the world around her. She began writing every day, sometimes only for fifteen minutes, but it was a ritual that grounded her.

One chilly morning in early spring, Jenna sat at her favorite café with her laptop open, the hum of conversation filling the background. She had taken a week off work, using the time to finish a short story she had been struggling with for months. The plot had finally clicked, and the words had flowed with an ease she hadn’t felt in years.

As she typed the final sentence, a sense of peace washed over her. The feeling was unexpected, like stepping out of a storm and into sunlight. Jenna leaned back in her chair, her fingers resting on the keyboard. She looked out the window at the busy street below, at the people rushing by, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was rushing to catch up.

The turning point hadn’t been in some grand, dramatic moment. It hadn’t been a bold declaration of change or an overnight transformation. It had been the quiet decision to move forward, even if the path ahead wasn’t clear. It had been the small milestones—the first step to signing up for that workshop, the first moment of connection with someone who had walked a similar path, the first time she had shared her writing with others without holding back.

And now, sitting in the café, with the story complete and a sense of fulfillment in her chest, Jenna realized that perhaps the real turning point had been in those moments when she had chosen to begin again, even when it seemed easier to stay stuck.

With a deep breath, she closed her laptop and stood, her mind buzzing with ideas for what came next. The sun was shining brightly outside, and for the first time in a long time, she felt ready for whatever came next.

The dock behind her, the place where everything had ended, was no longer the place where her story stopped. It was just the beginning of a new chapter.