The trees stay loyal.
They shed what no longer serves them,
And somehow still find beauty in the break.
But me?
I’ve been shedding dreams so long,
my hope’s bald in the mirror.
Yeah, I smile—
but it’s tight, tired,
the kind you rehearse before people ask
if you’re okay.
And maybe that’s the thing—
you can water everyone else’s garden
and still wilt in your own.
Some mornings, I wake up motivated.
Other days, I stare at the ceiling like it owes me an answer.
Healing ain’t cute.
It’s gritty.
It’s crying in the car, then clocking in like nothing’s wrong.
It’s “self-care” on a budget
and “I’m fine” when you’re anything but.
I used to pray for strength—
but now I pray for softness.
For the courage to admit I’m exhausted,
for peace that doesn’t need proof.
Because the world tells you,
"Keep pushing,"
but never says,
"Rest, baby. You’ve carried enough."
So here I am—
raw, cracked, still trying.
Hope slips sometimes,
like loose change through my fingers.
But I’ve learned—
what falls can still grow roots
if you plant it in purpose.
So no, the leaves don’t fall—
I do.
But every time,
I rise with something realer,
truer,
mine.
