Trusting the Pause at Twelve O'Clock

People come into our lives, stay for a while, and sometimes leave. However, this does not make the time spent meaningless.”

Isabelle Holloway

In October 2025, a Scottish man I had never met before drove me through my small university town, fishing poles dangling over the roof of his car. I wanted to learn how to fly fish.

At the time, I was both amused and mortified. People I knew kept looking at me as if they were wondering, Why is Isabelle in a car with an old man and fishing rods on a Wednesday morning?

We drove for about fifteen minutes, past rolling hedges and sheep, until we reached Cameron Reservoir. For all I knew, he could have been planning to dump me in the lake and make me a headline.

Instead, we arrived beneath a perfectly clear sky. There was a little cabin beside the water with a purple-brick fireplace, fishing trophies, a taxidermied otter, and bulletin notices. I tucked my boots beneath the table while I waited.

He took me outside and taught me how to cast.

“Bring it back to twelve o’clock,” he said. “Wait a moment. Then throw it forward.”

He used a log as my target. I drew the rod backward, paused and sent it forward. Eventually, I began to get the hang of it.

The wind picked up, and I got chilly. I insisted that I was fine until eventually I surrendered and went inside. I sat beside the warming hearth among a group of older Scottish men, trying to be pleasant while feeling like a curiosity.

When it was time to leave, the Scottish fisherman drove me home.

Although I eventually used what he taught me when I started fishing in Pennsylvania, I regret that I never went back to Cameron Reservoir.

I have always become fascinated by things quickly. I like trying something new, leaving it half-done, and then wandering toward the next thing. In school, I moved between different interests, classes, and groups of friends. I rarely felt as though I belonged to one category.

Depending on who I was with, different parts of me would emerge. I could be more outgoing in one group and quieter in another, more serious in one setting and more silly in another.

Although these feelings aren’t entirely atypical, sometimes I wondered who I really was when nobody was around or telling me who I am, or should be. People always have expectations for you. 

At 22, it seems a lot of the expectations from my friends and family revolve around relationships.

People seem increasingly concerned that I have never had a boyfriend, let alone held hands with a boy.

“Are you a lesbian?” some family members have asked me.

Friends have offered more practical advice.

“What are you looking for? What’s your type?”

I don’t have a type. I want to take a nap.

But the larger question has never really been about romance. I have plenty of people I love and people who know me well. I have a best friend who has seen more versions of me than I can count, and I still don’t understand how I deserve her friendship.

What does make me uncomfortable is the idea of letting myself be fully known when I don’t know how long someone will be there.

I can walk alone through an unfamiliar country, take buses across borders, and sleep in an empty trailer in the woods. A strange place does not ask me to explain who I am, and even a roadside cow doesn’t create a version of me. I can simply be there.

I sometimes feel a bit apart when I look at my siblings, whose lives seem to have more visible threads of stability. I know their lives are complicated too, but mine has often felt like a series of departures.

But not every relationship needs to become permanent, and not every friendship needs to fit into a category. People come into our lives, stay for a while, and sometimes leave. However, this does not make the time spent meaningless.

There is something beautiful about passing through seasons of people and carrying pieces of them with you wherever you go.

The Scottish man told me to bring the rod back to twelve o’clock and wait. I think the pause at the peak is what I have always struggled with.

You bring the rod back. You reach twelve o’clock. And then you wait.

The line is suspended above you. Nothing has gone wrong, and nothing has been decided yet. You just have to trust that the pause will not cause everything to fall apart.

I am still learning how to fly fish. I just have to learn that I can pause long enough to see what comes next.