Faceplant
2025
Hiding behind the bush.
I met the ground— hard, sudden, and uninvited.
My hands let me down.
My face touched dirt to learn sky.
The earth humbles me.
Before the rise can mean something,
the fall must come
Moments when shelter slips away—when the body fails, when the ego drops, when there is nowhere to go but down. And yet, in this collapse, something else appears: humility, grounding, the possibility of beginning again. Faceplant is a portrait of reckoning, but also a quiet claim that even in the dirt, we are still held.
Sometimes, shelter isn’t found in standing tall. Sometimes it’s in the fall—and the strange grace of being brought low enough to start again.
2025
Hiding behind the bush.
I met the ground— hard, sudden, and uninvited.
My hands let me down.
My face touched dirt to learn sky.
The earth humbles me.
Before the rise can mean something,
the fall must come
Moments when shelter slips away—when the body fails, when the ego drops, when there is nowhere to go but down. And yet, in this collapse, something else appears: humility, grounding, the possibility of beginning again. Faceplant is a portrait of reckoning, but also a quiet claim that even in the dirt, we are still held.
Sometimes, shelter isn’t found in standing tall. Sometimes it’s in the fall—and the strange grace of being brought low enough to start again.
2025
Hiding behind the bush.
I met the ground— hard, sudden, and uninvited.
My hands let me down.
My face touched dirt to learn sky.
The earth humbles me.
Before the rise can mean something,
the fall must come
Moments when shelter slips away—when the body fails, when the ego drops, when there is nowhere to go but down. And yet, in this collapse, something else appears: humility, grounding, the possibility of beginning again. Faceplant is a portrait of reckoning, but also a quiet claim that even in the dirt, we are still held.
Sometimes, shelter isn’t found in standing tall. Sometimes it’s in the fall—and the strange grace of being brought low enough to start again.