Let The Marbles Fall

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I hesitate. 

My fingers hover over ‘post,’ my hands curl around the edges of an unfinished idea. It is almost right. Almost. But almost is never enough. Perfection is a moving target, always shifting just as I am about to aim. And so I keep waiting, keep polishing, keep hiding.

How selfish of me? I pick and choose the best marbles; the ones full of depth, swirled with colour, the kind that have you staring deeply and I let you have all the polished, solid ones; smooth, predictable, beautiful and acceptable.

The ones with depth, the ones that whisper my origin stories; those are mine!

I tell myself they are safer here, cradled in my hands, unseen. Only I can truly understand their beauty.

So I keep them close, stacking them beside me, where I can admire them in secret.

But the collection grows. More and more of them, shimmering, iridescent, untouched.
They rise higher, piling up, pressing in.

When did they become a tower?

When did I become so small?

I thought I was protecting them. But now, they are protecting me—from failure, from judgment, from risk.

Or maybe…They are imprisoning me.

I am tired.

Tired of waiting for perfection. Tired of smoothing out every rough edge before I dare to share. Tired of this tower I built.

I have spent years convincing myself this was for the best. But now, I am suffocating. My hands are full, but I have nothing to show for it.

I want to knock it all down. I want to stop caring. But the truth is—I don’t know how.

Because if I let go, what’s left?
Who am I without the perfect image?

And then another thought creeps in, one I’ve been too afraid to face—

What if the marbles were never meant to be hidden?
What if I let them scatter? What if I let them be seen?

I stare at the tower, at the marbles stacked so high they block out the light.

For so long, I believed they were mine to protect. That if I let them roll away, my precious marbles would be ridiculed.

My hands begin to shake. Not with fear—no, something else. Something softer. Surrender.

I loosen my grip. Just a little.

One marble slips through my fingers. It hits the ground, and I brace myself for the worst—rejection, indifference, regret. But none of it comes.

Instead, someone picks it up. Holds it to the light. Sees it.

And then, they smile.

So I let another one fall. And another.

Some roll far, finding places I never expected them to go. Some land gently at the feet of people I’ve longed to meet, people I never would have found if I had kept holding on so tightly.

And as they scatter, something shifts within me.

I am no longer shielded by the shadow of the parts of me I shut away. The weight of all I’ve hidden no longer presses in. I reach for freedom and I feel hands reaching back.

I find my people. The ones who don’t just accept what is polished and easy, but see what is raw and real; and embrace it. The ones I prayed for, long before I believed they existed.

I find my voice. Worn, a little shaky, but mine.

And for the first time, I realise—

These gorgeous marbles were never meant to be kept all to myself.

Eva Donde