What I Know About Waiting

Do not mistake stillness for ending.

Seeds spend whole seasons

hidden beneath the earth.

The tide retreats

without explaining itself.

The moon disappears

without asking permission.

Not every unanswered question

is a closed door.

Not every pause

is a loss.

Still—

there are mornings

when the silence feels heavier

than certainty.

Mornings when the map ends

and nothing arrives to replace it.

When the body asks for rest,

is it wisdom?

Or fear?

When the future remains hidden,

is it protecting something,

or withholding it?

Some journeys move

in visible miles.

Others move

in roots.

But how do you recognize growth

when nothing appears to change?

How long do you trust

what is happening beneath the surface?

And what, exactly,

are you waiting for?

And if the door remains closed,

for a month,

a year,

longer—

what part of you

continues planting seeds

anyway?

—Malwina Buldys