I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. The question was simple: What profession do I admire most? My answer: Circus performers.

No hesitation to think about it. But writing about it? Hell.

I’ve rewritten this damn thing a dozen times. Why? Because words fail me.

How do you describe magic? That’s what they do. Magic.

They fly. They bend. They defy gravity. It’s insane.

And here I am, struggling to string sentences together. Pathetic, right?

But wait. Maybe that’s the point.

Circus performers make the impossible look easy. I watch them and think, “Wow, I could never do that.”

Now I’m writing about them and thinking the same thing. I can’t capture their essence. It’s too big. Too amazing.

Every draft feels weak. Inadequate. Like I’m insulting their talent with my clumsy words.

I admire their skills. Sure. But that’s surface stuff.

What really floors me? Their guts. 

They fall. Break. Bleed. Then rise. Heal. Soar. 

It’s not about the spotlight. It’s about the shadows. 

The grueling hours no one sees. The pain masked by smiles. 

That’s the real magic.

Not just doing the impossible. But doing it again. And again. And again.

Here’s me many years ago, tangled like a pretzel, proving that looking like a majestic circus performer is about as easy as writing about one.

But in my dreams?

I’m gracefully suspended between earth and sky, weaving magic with silks in an enchanted forest aglow with fireflies and possibility.