Poetic Self-Discovery through Nature

The first time I walked into the forest, I was looking for silence.

Not peace. Not beauty. Just silence—the kind that wraps around your shoulders and says, “You don’t have to speak today.”

I was seventeen and tired in the way only people who’ve been pretending can be. I had spent years trying on other people’s reflections—mirrors offered by parents, teachers, strangers on the street.

“Be strong.”

“Be graceful.”

“Be quiet.”

“Be better.”

Be someone else.

I carried all those selves like coats too tight at the wrists.

So I walked, away from the town, past the wheat fields, and into the woods where no one followed.

It was early spring. The trees had begun to wake, their limbs dusted in green promises. The path narrowed into something barely visible—just dirt and instinct. I didn’t care where it led. I just followed.

Birdsong stitched the sky.

Moss crept along stones like time painting itself in green.

Somewhere in the distance, water hummed.

I reached the river by afternoon. It didn’t roar or babble. It whispered.

So I sat by it, knees pulled to chest, and waited for nothing.

But everything came.

I saw a heron standing still as a prayer.

I watched ants rebuild their home after the wind had stolen it.

I listened to branches creak like old bones remembering a dance.

And slowly, something inside me unraveled.

Not in a dramatic, life-changing way. No tears. No sudden realizations.

Just a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding… leaving.

That became my ritual.

Every Saturday, I returned. I brought no music, no books, no distractions. Just me and the forest.

Some days, I wandered without aim. Other days, I lay flat on my back and let sunbeams scribble thoughts across my face. I wrote poems in my head. Sang to birds I never saw.

Nature didn’t ask me for definitions. It didn’t require identity badges or explanations. It only asked me to exist.

And so I did.

One afternoon, I pressed my palm against a tree and whispered, “Who am I?”

The bark didn’t answer. But something shifted in the wind.

A branch released a single leaf.

It landed in my hair.

And I swear, I felt seen.

Over time, I started naming things—not in the scientific way, but in the way a child names imaginary friends.

The bent birch near the bend in the river? I called her Elder Sister.

The stone I always sat on? The Listening One.

The hawk that circled above at noon? Watcher of My Heart.

They became my companions.

Not because they knew me.

But because they didn’t try to change me.

The forest gave me metaphors instead of mirrors.

The moss taught me softness wasn’t weakness.

The river taught me I could move without breaking.

The wind taught me that change is a kind of freedom.

Even the thorns had something to say: “Protect yourself, but don't close off.”

One day, while tracing my usual loop, I found a fallen tree.

I sat on it, brushing away lichens, and began to hum. A tune I didn’t know I remembered.

Then—without planning—I began to speak.

Out loud.

“I think I’m not the person they want me to be.”

A squirrel flicked its tail nearby, unimpressed.

“I think I’m more shadow than shape. More question than answer.”

The wind picked up. The branches leaned in.

“I think… I’m okay with that.”

And the river—oh, the river—it laughed.

A soft, gurgling sound that could’ve been a splash or a song or an applause.

That was the first time I truly heard it. The river didn’t just whisper anymore.

It spoke.

Not in words, but in understanding.

And in that moment, I understood too:

I didn’t need to be something.

I only needed to be here.

Years have passed since then.

I still visit the forest.

Still greet Elder Sister.

Still sit on The Listening One.

Still wait for the river’s voice.

And every time I leave, I carry pieces of it back with me.

Not in my pockets.

In my breath.

In the quiet strength of my spine.

In the poem I’ve become.