I never thought dirt could save me. But here I am—hands messy, knees bruised, face sweaty—planting trees like it's some kind of cheap therapy session.

The truth? It is .

Every time I dig into the soil, I feel like I'm ripping open a part of myself.

The hollow places where grief lives.

The cracks left behind by people who swore they'd never leave.

The silent ache of waking up every day pretending to be fine.

I bury seeds because I don't know what else to bury. My anger. My heartbreak. My endless fear of not being enough.

And maybe it sounds poetic, but watching a seed sprout reminds me that not everything dead inside me has to stay that way.

Trees don't rush. They don't panic about tomorrow. They don't care about broken pasts.

They just grow—quietly, stubbornly, reaching for the light even when they're surrounded by darkness.

So, I keep planting. Not because I'm some eco-warrior saint. But because putting something in the ground and watching it grow is the closest thing I've found to hope.

And maybe one day, when the tree is tall enough, I'll lean against it, close my eyes, and finally breathe like a person who isn't running from themselves.

What would you plant if every tree you grew carried one of your burdens? Drop it in the comments—I'll be there, hands still dirty, planting mine too.

Take care buddies 🌱🪴🌳

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