A love Letter to the Edge

Margins: the fragile places that write us back.

I’ve always been secretly scribbling thoughts onto scraps of paper, folding them over quickly, or stuffing them into my pockets. That’s how I left my DNA behind—notes in the margins of my life. Quick, quiet flashes where the only right response was to write something down. A caption for a moment. A blurb to preserve a single beat in time.

I love thinking about the margins of my life.

They’re the seconds when my heart skips a beat. When I smile so big I feel the stretch tug at the corners of my mouth, soft and taut, and almost restricting my human capacity. Margins are when you cry so hard you gasp for air, but no sound comes out. When everything pauses, just for a flicker. The kind of moment you forget in your routine—but feel crash into you during silence.

The margin is the skin beside my thumbnail, where I pick and pry when I’m anxious. It’s the pulse between thoughts—right before the tides rushes in and flood everything.

The margin isn’t something you can summon. It’s something that finds you. It is insistent and demanding. It’s random. In a simple second it tears you apart and builds you up a little newer, a little shinier, a little better.

For me, being in the margin is like placing my hand on the surface of water—hovering there, just before breaking the seal. You rest your palm atop the liquid and cut off the air, lingering in a delicate stillness… or maybe a lack of anything at all. It’s a meditation. You clear your mind and try to merge with the water. Which is ironic—because water already merges with everything else. The task becomes about finding a mutual softness. Finding where you and the margin agree to meet.

I can never quite articulate why I find this space so captivating. Maybe it’s universal. Or maybe we each have our own version of it. But I know I love it—that silent dialogue with the margin. The immersion. The respect.

Margins can be light or dark.

Honey or wound.

Healing or hurting.

But always, after the margin, the story continues. You can pause to draw a small picture. You can emphasize and write what you need to. The margin—contrary to how it feels while you’re in it—gives you space. It smuggles you stolen time. It bows and offers tools left at your feet. It holds your shaking hands and reassures you.

And after your time there, you are different.

You’ve shifted.

You’ve pivoted.

For me, writing is the only way I can begin to understand the margin and decipher and translate its wordless wisdom.