The salty ocean breeze dances around Air Temple Island as I sit cross-legged on the warm stone courtyard, watching the waves shimmer under the afternoon sun. The distant hum of Republic City carries over the water—muffled voices, the occasional buzz of a satomobile, and the ever-present calls of the seagull-spirit birds circling the cliffs. But here, on our island home, it’s peaceful. The scent of cherry blossoms drifts from the trees, and the rhythmic slap of the tide against the rocks mixes with the laughter of my children.

“Tenzin, steady your breath,” I call out, watching my youngest son, his face scrunched in focus. He’s small but determined, his little arms outstretched as he tries to mimic my stance. A gust of wind kicks up, sending fallen petals swirling around us. He gasps in delight, and I grin. “Good! Now feel the air, don’t force it. Let it flow through you.”

A splash from the other side of the courtyard draws my attention. Kya is practicing waterbending near the temple’s fountain, the crystal-clear water spiraling around her. She giggles, flicking a playful splash toward Bumi, who—despite being the only one of my children without bending—always finds a way to be in the middle of the action. He ducks with a whoop, his wild grin mirroring his mother’s.

Katara stands nearby, watching them with that soft, knowing smile of hers, her arms crossed as she leans against one of the ancient columns. Her hair is pulled back in its usual looped style, but a few strands have escaped, framing her face in a way that makes my heart feel light as air.

I take a deep breath, feeling the energy of the island—the spirit of the air nomads who came before me, the laughter of my children, the love in Katara’s gaze. This, right here, is balance.