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Have You Ever Watched Seagulls While Sitting in Your Car?




I have.


Not in a poetic, beach-sunset, Instagram-caption kind of way.

More like… parked crooked near a deli, engine off, coffee cooling, wondering how my life got rearranged without asking my permission.

And there they are.


Seagulls.


Just… doing their thing like they have a meeting I wasn’t invited to. Like they got the memo on how to be alive and I somehow missed it.


One dives, sharp, committed... into the water like it trusts there’s something worth going after. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a decision.

Another just floats. No urgency. No panic. Just bobbing like, “If it comes, it comes,” as if peace isn’t something you earn but something you stop fighting.

A few of them circle, catching the wind in a way that feels almost unfair. No flapping. No effort. Just… lifted.


Meanwhile, I’m in a parked car overthinking a text message from three days ago like it’s a Supreme Court case.


They squawk constantly.

Loud. Chaotic. A little obnoxious if we’re being honest.

But watch them long enough- and this is where it turns- you start to realize…


That sound?

It’s not random.

They’re talking.


Calling each other. Warning each other. Arguing. Coordinating.

There’s a system inside the chaos.

There’s meaning inside what sounds like chaos.


And I sat there thinking...

How much of life have I dismissed as “noise” just because I didn’t understand the language?

How much of myself have I muted… because it didn’t sound polished?


Because if you zoom out for even a second, those birds are doing something remarkable.


They dive without guarantees.

They rest without guilt.

They ride forces they didn’t create.

They stay near each other- even when they’re loud, even when they’re messy.

They keep communicating- even when it’s not pretty.


They don’t wait to be composed to be alive.

And me?


I spend most days trying to control the wind…

instead of learning how to use it.

I fight it. Brace against it.

Instead of opening to it.

I silence my own voice because I’m afraid it’ll sound like squawking.

I isolate because I think everyone else has it figured out.

I wait for certainty before I move—while a bird just throws itself into the ocean and figures it out on the way down.


Sitting there, watching them, I had this uncomfortable, almost sacred thought:

Maybe I’m not lost.

Maybe I’m just unwilling to look like a seagull.

Loud. Imperfect. Dependent.

Willing to dive. Willing to float. Willing to be seen needing something.

Because those birds?


They’re not embarrassed by their hunger.

They’re not ashamed of their sound or waiting to be perfect before they fly.

They don’t confuse being quiet with being strong.

They’re alive in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

And maybe… just maybe…

what I’ve been calling chaos

is just a life I’ve been afraid to live out loud.


I don’t want less of it.

I just don’t want to be afraid of my own voice anymore.


Comments

Anonymous said…
Love this and the way you explain such important lessons with humility and grace
March 29, 2026 at 7:50 AM
Janet Stevens said…
Love this and the way you explain important life lessons with humility and grace
March 29, 2026 at 7:51 AM
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