Do trees miss their leaves?
Or do they welcome the wind —
the way we welcome silence
after too much pretending?

Maybe they ache —
not for what fell,
but for what stayed too long.

Maybe they’re relieved
to feel naked
and honest
and root-deep again.

We’re taught to love what’s heavy.
To carry more.
Grow more.
Hold on, no matter what.
And call it strength.

But some things stay past their season.
Some things rot while still attached.
And still — we cling.
Because we’ve been told that letting go
looks like giving up.

No one tells you
that the real weight
is pretending it still fits.

No one warns you
that what once felt like growth
can quietly become grief.

Maybe trees know better.
Maybe they don’t mourn the fall —
maybe they exhale.

Maybe subtraction
isn’t the opposite of becoming.
Maybe it’s the beginning.

I’ve spent years
mistaking exhaustion for grace.
Mistaking performance for purpose.
Mistaking noise for aliveness.

But I’m learning.
Like the trees.
How to shed.
How to stand.
How to still be beautiful — without the leaves.
How to remain whole — even as you let things fall away.

🌀 Some questions don’t need answers. Just a place to be asked.