Before I Knew Where I Was Going

The stranger at the station

held their ticket

like it might reveal

something the words don't say.

I recognized that fear.

That face.

That confusion

mixed with the strange relief

of leaving.

Thirty years ago

I had that ticket.

Had that look.

Had the weight of it

in my hand

like permission

I wasn't sure I'd earned.

The stranger turned the ticket over.

As if the back held

the answer.

As if somewhere in the fine print

was written:

Yes, you can go.

Yes, it's okay to leave.

I wanted to tell them—

the train goes where it says.

You'll arrive

and feel lost

and that's fine.

That's how it starts.

But I didn't.

Just watched them fold the paper.

Watched them tuck it away.

Watched them become

the version of themselves

brave enough to stay.

The version I became

when I learned

that not knowing where you're going

is just another name

for beginning.