It was only the beginning, the catalyst.

What was the catalyst?

Not the earthquake, but the crack in the wall,

Not the fire, but the first match struck in darkness.

The catalyst was absence—

The job that never came, the call never made,

The love that didn't last long enough,

The door that closed so we'd find another.

We blame ourselves, then blame fate,

Never knowing which version is true.

Perhaps the catalyst was both:

The breaking and the breaking open.

What was the catalyst for becoming?

The answer lives in a thousand different stories,

Each person swearing it was something else—

The loss, the luck, the moment we let go.

It was only the beginning, though we couldn't see it,

The catalyst already working in shadow,

Turning our stumbling into stepping stones,

Our endings into unexpected new paths.