Author's Note

I don’t trust the title of this book anymore.

For a long time, The Fire and The Water felt right.

It gave shape to things that were overwhelming.

It made intensity feel meaningful.

Now I’m not so sure.

I’m starting to wonder if fire and water were never the problem.

If naming them that way was just a way to avoid looking at something deeper and harder to admit.

I wasn’t drowned.

I wasn’t forged.

I wasn’t even changed in the dramatic way I once believed.

I was hiding.

Not all at once.

Not obviously.

But slowly, politely, over years.

The truth is, I stepped out of myself long before anyone hurt me.

Long before love complicated things.

It's so enmeshed in my existence I can't even point to a moment and say, that’s where it all went wrong.

This book began as a way to understand what happened at an emotionally charged point of my story.

Now, it’s becoming something else. More a record of noticing how often I wasn’t there for my own life, because I wouldn't allow myself to be.

That realisation doesn’t feel empowering.

It feels embarrassing.

It feels diminishing.

It makes me question the language I’ve used, the symbols I’ve leaned on, and the version of myself I’ve been most confident presenting.

I don’t know what this book is about.

I only know what it’s no longer willing to pretend.

If you’re looking for insight or some kind of neat crescendo finish, this may disappoint you.

There is no lesson here.

No transformation I can point to and say, this is what it all meant, THIS what made it ALL WORTHWHILE!

I'm writing from the moment before that. (the moment just before, God willing, because Christ knows I'm tired by this point).

Just before I decide what to keep.

Before I decide what to forgive.

Before I decide who I was or, more terrifyingly, who I’m allowed to become.

The only thing I know for certain is that something has shifted, and I can’t unknow it.

So if this book feels disconnected at times, that’s because it was written that way.

If it contradicts itself, that’s because I'm still inside the contradiction.

And if the title no longer fits by the end.. that’s hardly suprising. Because this book was written by someone who thought she understood the story right up until the moment she realised she didn’t. But I kept going anyway.

Some of my art I burned in the fire.

Some of it I drowned in the sea.

The pieces that remain hang on my walls, soot and salt sealed into every stroke.

Proof that creation is the opposite of collapse.

And space for many more to come.

I still live near the ocean.

My boys have grown taller, louder, wilder.

Jackson still charges through the grevilleas like he’s in Top Gun.

Some mornings the ocean is so calm I swear I can hear Danny’s outboard idling just past the breakers, waiting to see if I’m finally ready to come fishing.

And some mornings, I catch my reflection in the window and see the woman I fought to become:

• unbroken,

• unafraid,

• slightly unhinged, for certain,

• but finally at home in her own company.

At the time of writing this, I should probably reassure you that I know where all this is going.

I do not.

If that’s uncomfortable, I sympathise. It’s uncomfortable to write as well. But pretending otherwise would be dishonest, and honesty, it turns out, is already making enough of a mess without my help.

All I know is that I’m still here.

Still painting.

Still learning how to breathe underwater and dance through the fire.

Growing new branches,

nourished from deep roots resting in cool water,

supported by a strong trunk hardened by flame.

— Trinity James