I. they woke up with a feeling that their heart was a compass, that their ribs were a road map, something in them pointing to a place they’d never been.

II. call them Anyone, which is to say call them You. they woke up one morning the ceiling too low. the mirror too small. the questions too loud. they said: “we’re done with shrinking to fit a place that wasn’t built for the size of our dreams.”

III. That’s how it started. Not with trumpets, With a soft sentence. That refused to remain silent.

IV. they packed light: a pocket full of “almosts”. a backpack full of “somedays.” a fist closed tight around a single, stubborn intention “it’s my time” is a walking stick. the road did what roads do; pretend to be endless just to see if you’ll turn back. the gravel spoke. you know the voice: “Don’t expect much.” “You were not built for this.”

V. first hill, trip. second hill, fall. third hill, down too long imagining the count of humiliation.

VI. the road insisted, “we match you and I. you’re made of dust, same as me! why keep getting up just to go down again?” they almost believed they were out. but inside their rib-map beat a compass not a drum. still here. still here. still here. they stood and answered back: “i’m not finished.”

VII. the middle. the grind. the ungentle in-between. no montage music just a calendar full of days that don’t care how tired you are.

VIII. a goal is not a wish. a wish is what you throw into fountains. a goal is the fountain you throw yourself into.

IX. on the worst nights, when the muddy road is nothing but fog and slippery questions, look up. overcomings are not trophies. they’re teachers. we don’t climb to own the mountain. we climb so the climb will declare our new name.

X. you are allowed to want things. you are allowed to outgrow your doubts. you are allowed to be a work in progress and a masterpiece at the same time. take one step then one more then one more. you do not have to be there to be going there. In fact, you can’t be.