Not About the Skyline

I wrote most of this post early this morning, before Elena woke up. Now, the day’s gone by, and I’m back at it—sitting down after she’s gone to bed to finish what I started.

After 35 minutes of revising a post I no longer know where I was going with those ideas, I’m reminded that not writing for weeks has consequences. Not only did I have no idea how to end it, but I also nearly tossed the whole thing.

God, I missed the writing drama.

I should start a category for posts like this one, called “It Happened Again”

So here—have these 6 AM words as proof that I’m still in it, still trying, still writing.

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Miami’s skyline greets me as I leave the bedroom. Shades of gentle blue own the space that stretches over the downtown buildings. The geometry of the view reminds me how much I enjoyed drawing buildings as a little girl—an unpatterned sequence of horizontal and vertical lines, connected over and over, marking the boundary between artificial and indescribable creation.

God, I love this time in the morning.

I stand at my new window on the 24th floor and take in the sharpness. I hold my breath, stretch my toes on the cold tile floor, and whisper to myself, This is me, right here. A while ago, I learned to always be on the lookout for “connect the dots” moments. I become aware of the current reality and spend a few minutes reflecting on what it took for me to be here.

That sort of time travel has brought me immense peace and given me a profound perspective.

Back in 2020, a different skyline scolded me each morning I dared walk up to the window. The sky was a similar blue, and I could find geometry everywhere, but the skyline held a different sort of sharpness. It was older, dustier, and unexpectedly foreign.

God, I felt so trapped.

I’ve had many windows over the years, some have fogged with doubt, anxiety, and fear. Some others have cleared my view, reminding me of how small I am in the grand scheme of life. Each window, though, has been true to one thing: I will always see something different each time I look. Nothing stays the same.

Miami’s skyline and the shades of blue at 6:18 AM will only be this way for a few more minutes, and then raging oranges will come through. People will start their days, more cars will pack the highway, and boats will begin their slow drift down the river. I am here today. I wasn’t trapped after all.

I need to be in this mindset more often. The idea that nothing is permanent drives my actions. It reminds me that both pain and joy move like weather—real, sometimes heavy, but constantly shifting. That even the hardest seasons have an after. That someday I’ll look back on this view, too, and realize it was just one dot in a much larger constellation.

This piece isn’t really about the skyline—or even the past. It’s just me, writing my way back to myself.