Maybe, just maybe. There’s a certain stillness in that word, not the stillness of certainty, but the pause of possibility. What if? It lingers in the air, fragile as dew in the morning light, neither evaporating nor falling. Maybe is a grip that tightens and loosens, wrestling with both promise and hesitation. How many times have we thought about it?

Maybe, I wonder how much of my life has been spent lingering in its realm. Not out of fear of what lies ahead, but out of a reluctance to look inward and ask the hard questions. Maybe I’ve been too harsh, too guarded, too quick to tell myself a story where the world is the villain and I am the misunderstood protagonist. It’s comforting, isn’t it? That narrative absolves me of responsibility while keeping me stuck, a quiet refuge for a writer.

Maybe, just maybe, the mirror reflects more than I care to admit. If I stepped back from my need to always be right, I might see the beauty in not knowing. If I let go of the blame I’ve hoarded like treasure, perhaps I’d make room for growth. It’s terrifying to realize that my greatest obstacles aren’t external. But they’re not insurmountable either. There’s grace in admitting you don’t have all the answers, even when you’ve spent so much time pretending you do.

Maybe, if I sit with this quiet uncertainty, I’ll find that maybe isn’t meant to be a place to stay, but a necessary pause on the way to becoming. Maybe I can be better. Maybe I can forgive, myself and others. Maybe I can evolve, not by clinging to how things should be, but by embracing them as they are.

Maybe isn’t a resolution. But it’s a beginning. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Image: Personal Archive 2021 | Prince Edward Island
Originally published on January 30, 2025