The Gravity of Letting Go

The smell of damp earth after a long drought is a heavy, metallic scent that clings to the back of the throat. It is the smell of anticipation, of a world holding its breath before the release. I remember the feeling of jumping from a low stone wall when I was small—the sudden, sickening hollow in my stomach, that split second where gravity stops being a law and becomes a suggestion. My knees would jar against the hard-packed dirt, a sharp, electric jolt traveling up my shins, reminding me that I was made of bone and blood, not air. We spend so much of our lives tethered to the solid, the predictable, the ground that promises never to move. But there is a secret, frantic joy in the suspension, in that brief, terrifying moment where you are neither here nor there, but entirely, dangerously yourself. How much of our own weight are we willing to surrender just to feel the wind rush past our skin?

Fidan Nazim Qizi has captured this exact suspension in her beautiful image titled Leap. It is a reminder that the most profound parts of our lives happen when we finally decide to leave the ground. Does this image make you want to jump, or does it make you want to hold on tighter?