I sit with the earth when I don’t know what to do with myself.
My hands in the dirt, my thoughts everywhere.
The ground doesn’t rush me.
It lets me fall apart in pieces
and still holds me.
The trees don’t speak,
but somehow they understand staying—
standing through storms,
breaking quietly,
growing anyway.
I learn from them without trying to.
Some days my chest feels heavy,
like I’m carrying words I never said.
The wind takes them.
It doesn’t ask where they came from,
only carries them far enough
that they stop hurting.
The sky sees me when I feel small.
Wide, endless, honest.
It reminds me I don’t have to shrink
to survive.
Nature never tells me to be better.
It lets me be tired,
be unsure,
be human.
And in that stillness,
I remember—
I was never broken.
I was just forgetting how to breathe