I stopped by to see an old friend today.

There was a time—back when the world felt unbearably heavy—when I sat beneath her branches with a fist full of pills and a mind convinced I wouldn’t see 23. I didn’t know how to keep going. I barely had hope.  I didn’t know how to breathe through the pain. But I knew that tree. Her quiet presence held me when nothing else did. I knew the way her leaves whispered in the wind, the way her roots anchored into the earth like they were holding on for both of us. She didn’t speak, but she listened. She didn’t move, but she steadied me.

Now I’m about to turn 35. Eleven years of living I once believed I’d never have. Eleven years of growth, mistakes, healing, rebuilding, and learning how to exist in a world that once felt impossible. Something in me knew it was time to visit her again—not out of desperation, but out of gratitude. I wanted to say thank you for being there in my darkest moment, for offering a quiet place to sit when I didn’t trust myself to stand.

Nature has always been that way for me. Healing. Peaceful. Honest. Beautiful. A place where breath comes easier and thoughts settle into something softer.

But when I arrived, she was gone.

Cut down. Only a stump remained where she once stood.

I thought the sight would break me. I thought I’d feel the old sadness rush back in, or a sense of loss so sharp it would undo the progress I’ve made. I expected grief.

Instead, I felt… peace.

It surprised me at first. But standing there, I realized the chapter had already ended. The tree had been a witness to a version of me that no longer exists. The pain I carried back then isn’t the pain I carry now. And maybe I didn’t need her branches anymore to remind me that I survived.

Sometimes we cling to things—places, people, memories—because they feel familiar. Even when they’re tied to pain, they’re known. And the known can feel safer than the unknown. But staying in the same emotional place, repeating the same cycles, holding on to the same stories… it keeps us from growing. It keeps us from becoming who we’re meant to be.

Breaking cycles isn’t easy. It asks us to step away from what once comforted us. It asks us to trust that we can survive without the things we leaned on in our darkest moments. It asks us to believe in our own strength, even when it feels new and untested.

But breaking cycles is essential for growth. It’s how we make room for new chapters, new healing, new versions of ourselves.

I knelt beside the stump and ran my fingers over the rough bark that remained. The patterns were familiar, like the last traces of a memory. I took a small piece—not out of sorrow, but as a symbol of everything she represented. A reminder of where I was, and how far I’ve come. I whispered one final thank you. One final moment of connection.

And then I stood up, knowing I wouldn’t return again.

Some stories don’t need to be revisited forever.  Some places serve their purpose and then gently let us go. Some memories are meant to be honored, not lived in. Some chapters are meant to close so we can finally breathe in the next one. That tree held space for me when I couldn’t hold it for myself. Today, I walked away with gratitude instead of grief. It didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like release.

It felt like growth.

Sometimes healing looks like realizing you’ve already moved on.