The Tide Takes What it Wants
When the tide takes everything, sometimes the only thing left to hold is the line you draw for yourself.
The tide takes what did not belong—
the bright red ball left behind,
a plastic heart loosed to the sea.
It strips the salt-crust of presence,
but it cannot scrub memory.
Memory would be easier—
a clean break, a bone snapped.
Not this slow, aching bend.
Memory stays.
It sharpens itself in the dark,
a restless sleep where the clock moves forward,
but the spirit holds at that gray hour.
Sleep drifts out with the tide,
past spartina and oyster rakes,
floating somewhere beside that red ball,
bobbing in the wake of what won’t leave.
We stood where the creek meets the sea—
water seeping in as the tide makes its way,
our hands held without thinking,
a reflex older than reason.
We watched the old man,
shoulders bent against the heat,
ease a flounder from the water—
flat, patient, claimed at last.
That was the weight we should have lost.
Those are the things the tide should take—
round them down to smooth, unrecognizable stone.
Instead,
it gathers what it prefers—
reeds snapped in the midnight storm,
marsh grass dragging its long green grief,
as if the water knows
and refuses mercy.
By then, the moon has already turned.
The Atlantic has moved on,
taking the footprints, the scent,
the proof we were ever there.
It leaves only what cannot be entered into evidence:
the silt-heavy feeling of something passing through,
the break in the pluff mud that never quite fills,
the quiet, persistent knowing
that something was taken—
and no one,
not the moon,
not the marsh,
not the man,
will ever be made
to answer for it.
There comes a point—whether in life or in the legal field—when you begin to recognize that not everything taken will be returned, and not everything lost will be acknowledged.
After more than twenty years working inside the legal system, I have seen what makes it into the record—and what never does. I have seen how facts are shaped, how narratives are narrowed, and how what cannot be documented is often treated as if it never existed at all.
But knowing that—really knowing it—changes how you move.
It changes what you agree to.
It changes what you tolerate.
And most importantly, it teaches you where your boundaries must hold.
Recently, I was presented with an opportunity that, on its surface, looked like the next right step. But beneath that surface were terms that extended beyond the work itself—terms that reached into ownership, into control, into things that should never be signed away without question.
And I asked those questions.
When there was no room for conversation, no willingness to clarify or adjust, the answer became clear: not everything offered is meant to be accepted.
So I walked away.
Not out of fear.
Not out of uncertainty.
But out of understanding.
Because if there is one thing this field has taught me, it is this:
You cannot advocate for others if you are unwilling to hold the line for yourself.
And that is where this next chapter begins.
I am opening my own freelance paralegal practice—built on transparency, integrity, and the belief that the work behind the scenes matters just as much as what is said in open court.
This is not just a business decision.
It is a boundary.
A decision to work within spaces that respect both the profession and the people inside it.
A decision to offer support to attorneys and clients who value clarity, communication, and ethical practice.
A decision to step fully into the experience I’ve spent years building—and to do so on my own terms.
Because the truth is, not everything can be entered into evidence.
But it is still known.
And sometimes, knowing is enough to change everything.
