This morning, down Glades Road,

a turtle paused in the lane—

a stillness bold enough

to make the world slow down.

I circled back, parked,

waved at impatient cars,

stepped out into risk and reason.

He was heavier than I thought—

cool and armored, silent—

and as I carried him across

to the dew-wet grass,

he let loose a steady stream,

a line of fear arcing from my hands

to the sidewalk.

It startled me.

Not the wet,

but the truth of it.

He was scared.

And I—I was only trying to help.

Later, on the way to the post office,

I realized:

I have done the same.

Pushed back, flailed,

pissed on the hands that meant well—

not because I knew better,

but because fear came first.

I’ve doubted kind words

from people who loved me.

I’ve resisted change

because I mistook it for threat.

I’ve told stories in my mind

about betrayal—when it was just

someone carrying me

to safer ground.

How often have I peed,

metaphorically or not,

on the grace I’ve been given?

In a world trembling with conflict—

where every outstretched hand

is mistaken for a fist—

maybe the lesson is this:

Even if fear is natural,

it doesn’t have to be final.

Maybe next time,

I’ll pause,

feel the lift beneath me,

and trust the journey

might not be harm in disguise.

Maybe next time,

I’ll hold my fear

and let the kindness pass through.