Saltwater Detox: No Room for Mediocrity

The ocean doesn't ask for permission, and neither do I.
I waded into the cold Atlantic to wash away the residue of a city that tries to shrink you every single day. There was this guy—let’s call him 'Standard Issue'—who thought he could keep me on a leash made of sweet words and hollow promises. He wanted a version of me that stayed quiet, tucked neatly into his expectations. But honey, I don't do 'love brain.' I don't lose my edge just because someone looks good in candlelight.
The salt is stinging the small cuts on my skin, but it feels more honest than any apology he ever gave. As the tide pulls at my waist, I feel the weight of his ghost dissolving into the foam. There’s a certain kind of healing that only happens when you realize your own warmth is enough to sustain you. The water is biting, the wind is sharp, and for the first time in months, I am perfectly, unapologetically alone. No drama, no desperate clinging, just me and the rhythm of the tide. If it isn't high-proof passion or soul-deep peace, I simply don't have the bandwidth for it anymore.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks