As I quietly returned home from the hustle and bustle,
I felt the space that I once called home feel slightly off.
I couldn’t work out if it was me, or the season changing before my eyes,
the trees still have not blossomed yet, and neither have I.
It took some time to gather myself into a routine,
but one thing was for sure.
The crisp, cold air I once missed,
after months of humidity,
struck me so fiercely to my chest.
Home was supposed to feel like stillness,
like slipping into the known,
exhaling without thinking.
Instead, there’s a different kind of noise-
not just chaos, not just calm,
something that feels unfinished
My days don’t land properly here,
they drift from morning into afternoon,
plans are half-made,
they’re routines that don’t quite hold.
There are two versions of myself,
the working versus the not working,
moving with ultimate purpose,
and then simply just existing.
Within those unstructured hours,
the countdown of the next assignment,
I let those days be messy, let the routine wobble,
Let myself feel out of place, without rushing so desperately to fix it.
That’s when I decided I feel like a tree before it blooms.
The roots are still holding themselves together,
in perfect and imperfect weather conditions,
the uneven ground,
the uncertainty.
I feel the quiet ache of sunshine, a soft unfolding of colors.
I don’t become someone new,
I’m still rooted, still weathered by the distance and time.
The bloom was never the beginning,
I was already growing even when I looked still.
This was written by our contributing writer, Megan Evans.
Image Source: Unsplash, Aimee shanks
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