Unzipped

I stood in the sand

so flat and gold

almost smooth enough to blur the individual grains.

It was midday and blindingly hot,

my pale skin a sheen of sweat

the ocean milky glass.

I had the urge to strip down and run in.

I told him, and he scoffed.

“You can’t go in your underwear.”

I didn’t say: I meant naked.

I didn’t say: whether naked or clothed, or in underwear, nobody would care.

Least of all the ocean.

I did say: “Why not? There’s nobody here.”

“Go ahead,” he said, “if you really want to,” and so I didn’t.

And then I blamed him.

And then I blamed me.

And then I brought it up during fights over the next decade.

I made it mean so many things.

About us

about him

about me.

This morning I stood in the sand,

rivulets of ocean,

and so many rocks.

The light over the water clear and wet.

A tiny blush.

The people with me, bright-eyed and red-cheeked, stripping down and running into the cresting waves.

I did not feel the urge to run in.

I stood, warm in my hat and coat,

cheeks hurting from smiling,

eyes burning from crying.

I thought I would get a do-over,

and stand on a beach somewhere and then unzip all the layers until bare,

awkwardly hop on one foot, pulling off boots,

eyes singularly focused on the glittery seam of blue and blue

and then run in

to prove a point to someone who wasn’t even there.

Only when I walked away,

the ocean at my back,

I realized today was not a do-over.

A day in the future when I might run in

will not be a do-over.

There are no do-overs.

And it’s not about running in or staying out.

I’ve left myself in the water to drown, and I’ve left myself on the sand to burn.

It’s about regret and anger and grief over self-abandonment.

Not even in a sad, depressing way, although in that way, too, yes

just in the way of a sacred remembrance,

that I’ve been here before

and will be here again,

and to still keep coming back to myself and then stay and ask

every morning at every beach,

regardless of the people around me:

“If the ocean doesn’t care (it never does), what do you want?”

What do I want?

Originally published Oct 22, 2025, and sharing again because I so love the ocean and what it teaches me. If you feel the same, you might like this.

Quick reminder that if you've written something in response to this week's prompt that you want me to consider sharing with the community, email it to juliane@bergmannconsulting.com by the end of the day.

The next reading lab is coming up on June 11th - If you've been on the fence about trying it out, just do it. It's magical. More info below.

Unmentionables Monthly Reading Lab

Once a month, you'll have the chance of experiencing the sparkly magic of reading a rough draft out loud to a small community of fellow writers.

We share our work in progress without offering critical feedback to each other. It’s practice for being seen in draft stage and for paying attention to what calls out to us in our own words, without having our voice diluted by other people’s perception. This is not a dig against workshops with feedback. It’s just that I feel drawn to focus on creating space for our new, fresh words to breathe without being immediately snuffed out by another person’s interpretation.

The Unmentionables Reading Lab happens every month on the second Thursday from 11:30 am - 1:00 pm Mountain time. June's lab is on Thursday, 06/11/2026 11:30 am - 1 pm Mountain / 1:30 pm - 3 pm Eastern. Put your name in one of the pink slots on the sign-up sheet (with a Glitter or Sparklers membership, if you're currently subscribed to Confetti, you can upgrade here). If you didn’t get a spot, put your name on the waitlist. Life happens, and there’s usually one or two spots that open up right before the lab.

I’m scared to read out loud. What do I do???

I get it. I won’t tell you it isn’t scary or that the fear is really just excitement. The fear of being seen and heard and known and maybe rejected for your words is not just “butterflies” or “stage fright.” It’s real. That’s exactly why it’s so magical to do it anyway.

I can’t take your fear away, but what I will do is care-bear, love-stare the shit out of you while you read. I’ve been a part of several “curated” group experiences, and understand that one asshole can ruin the whole thing. I take it seriously that you trust me enough with your bloody, little hearts and salty tears, so I try my very best to make this space asshole-repellent.

Does my piece need to be polished? No. Just the opposite!

• Bring a rough draft. Especially when writing something deep, editing can be our way of pulling back because the exposure is uncomfortable. This can result in cutting out the best bits, the juicy parts that will get to your reader. I invite you to leave your writing raw and see how it lands on you when you read it out loud.

How long can my piece be?

• Keep the word count of the draft you’re reading to about 800 words, or about three minutes.

Please do these two things:

• When it’s your turn, just start reading, don’t qualify your words, don’t provide context.
• Read slower than you think you should.

Do I have to be on camera and/or stay the entire time?

• Being on camera is not mandatory but highly encouraged. I would love for all of us to be in it together, and gifting our full attention and presence to everyone who is courageous enough to show up and read.
• Feel free to eat, drink, or do whatever you need, though. There will be a pee break about halfway through (or whenever someone really has to pee…).

Don’t wait. Do it scared.