Burning Bridges, Building Ships

I used to be afraid of endings—of doors closing, of people leaving, of the silence that follows goodbye. But lately, I’ve learned something about burning bridges, building ships.

A bridge is fortified, strong, concrete. Every time something crosses it, it loosens, just a little. Just like the people we let into our lives—connections formed, bonds created—and somehow, we lose pieces of ourselves along the way.

But a ship, on the other hand, is built to carry, not to hold. It bears the weight of everything it takes in, yet still moves forward, crossing seas and the unknown.

Maybe that’s the difference. I’m no longer something people pass through, no longer a place where others come and go. I’m no longer waiting to be chosen, or standing still, hoping someone stays.

I am learning how to carry myself, even when no one else does.

So if I must choose between holding on and letting go, between breaking slowly or leaving whole, I will burn the bridges that break me and I will build the ships that carry me home.