To Catch and Release

When I was sixteen, I spent the summer of 2017 fishing alone. 

Having moved to a new city, a completely new environment, without any friends or familiarity, I found solace in catching bass in the local ponds.


I must have caught more of them than I could ever remember that summer…

I remember one late afternoon, around 7:00 pm, right at the start of golden hour, I felt a tug on my line.
I started to reel in and, well… it was yet another bass.

Except, I remember this one quite clearly. 

I admired it the way any good fisherman would — good weight, beautiful patterns across its scales, just a really pretty bass overall.


And as I held it in the fading light, I had a realization.
I thought to myself… what exactly am I doing here?

This thing is a beauty!

And I'm pulling it out of the water because I was bored and needed to do something during my afternoons. 


So I put it back, let it revive for a few seconds, and off it went.
And it would be the last bass that I ever caught for myself. 


In that moment, I came to understand that caring for something doesn’t always mean holding on — sometimes it means letting go.

And years later, just like that bass,
I cared for someone more than I knew how to hold,
and I let them go.

Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have.
If maybe our time could've lasted a little longer. 
The thought crosses my mind more often than I'd like to admit.

But the truth is, I wasn’t who I needed to be back then.
And perhaps they weren’t either.

Sometimes a connection wakes something up in you. 
A softness you weren’t expecting.
A depth you didn't realize you still had.

And suddenly you’re holding something delicate,
something meaningful,
something you want to protect.

Even if you're not meant to keep it. 

As for them,
I hope our paths cross again one day.
Not to change anything,
but to simply smile at how far we both have come.

And so I let go with appreciation,
admiration,
and a little bit of sorrow.

Just like that bass.

To catch and release.