Do you ever feel like fishing at midnight is the only time you truly feel understood?

I used to think fishing was just another way to escape.

But then I realized: it wasn’t the fish I caught—it was the silence between casts.

In my Brooklyn apartment, after midnight, when the city sleeps and the streetlights fade into something quieter than memory, I’d sit by the window with a rod in hand—not because I wanted to win, but because I needed to feel something real.

The game didn’t care if I caught anything.

It only asked if I showed up.

There’s no algorithm for luck here. No RNG that guarantees joy.

Just the rhythm of waves against glass—a slow pulse beneath skin—and how it matches your breath when no one else is watching.

I once spent three nights trying to name this feeling: not ‘fishing’ as a hobby—but as an act of survival.

My mother said, ‘You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.’

So I stopped chasing trophies.

Instead, I set a budget—$5 a day—and let myself be still long enough for the tide to return me to myself.

They call it ‘Fishing Shield.’

I call it home.

Have you ever felt understood in a moment no one else noticed?