Hiding in Pools

Trauma leaves thoughts unfinished.
Stuck.
Hiding.
Why can’t I tap in?
One day it overwhelms, takes over.
At the award dinner: “You did a good job watching them die.”

This work is both privilege and perspective.
Imperfect, yet striving for finding grace, self-validation, trying our best.
Trying to be better, to find peace, to welcome more joy.
Tears of connection remind me we’re moving in the right direction.

Fishing teaches me: to catch a trout we study ecology, play with entomology, apply knowledge to water. In play, we learn stewardship, the responsibility of conservation.

I fished mountain streams with trout hidden in pools. Feasting on the seams where their food flies by and my spirituality is born.

Bass fishing carries tradition. Generations chasing the strike. My heart aches, past and present, but the river whispers: let your indicator drift; surrender to nature’s mercy.

Where to go, where to be? Questions circling endlessly. Control and release blur together. Do we ever control a bent rod, or merely influence the fight toward shore?

Hard work, burnout, exhaustion. Coping with old trauma while new pain buries it deeper. Alcohol is a broken crutch. It strains the body further. Create movement: get outside, keep going. Yet the hardest part is always the first step, putting on our shoes and walking forward.