Living Proof
On surviving what never announced itself as survival.
Some lessons don’t announce themselves as survival until long after you’ve crossed them.
A jagged crack in the sidewalk just wide enough to give pause. Who knows how deep? what goes in never reappears. Ants marching out more sure of their purpose than I’ve ever been. I step over it without a second thought, ingrained wariness of breaking my mother’s back. It still surprises me, the way I’ve learned to cross the things that could swallow me, the ants do not hesitate— they vanish and come back, living proof: someone leaving isn’t the same as never returning. M.R. Jones
I didn’t recognize this as strength when I was younger.
It felt more like habit.
Like superstition.
Like stepping carefully without knowing why.
Only later did I notice how often I crossed things that could have taken me,
how many times I mistook survival for normalcy,
how much of my life has been shaped by learning to keep moving
without demanding certainty.
The ants don’t hesitate.
They disappear and return.
Not because the danger is gone,
but because going on is what they know.
Maybe that’s what proof looks like.
Not triumph.
Not fearlessness.
Just the quiet fact
that leaving is not the same as being lost.
"Just the quiet fact that leaving is not the same as being lost." This line gave me straight up shivers in the best way. I couldn't agree more.
I was just thinking about you. You disappeared from my feed, so I came looking. I am glad I did. You did not disappoint.
This poem landed deeper than I expected. The line “leaving is not the same as being lost, I have a tendency to equate every departure in my life with failure. Leaving a country. Leaving a relationship. Leaving a version of myself that did not work. In my head, leaving has always meant I messed up.
Your poem challenged that. It made me realize that sometimes leaving is simply crossing. Sometimes it is survival. Sometimes it is the only way forward, even if it does not look heroic.
I have spent a lot of time replaying decisions, dissecting them, trying to figure out where I went wrong. This poem reminded me that continuing is its own kind of proof. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just steady.
Thank you for that perspective.