Born to Fly

In a quiet forest nestled between emerald hills, a small nest rested on the highest branch of the tallest tree. Inside that nest was a young bird named Ziya, born to a family of sky dancers — a proud lineage of falcons known for their legendary flight. But from the moment she cracked through her shell, Ziya was different.

While her siblings flapped their wings with pride and eagerness, Ziya hesitated. Her wings were smaller, her confidence thinner. She would climb to the edge of the nest, watch the wind swirl through the trees, and wonder, “What if I fall?”

Her mother, gentle yet firm, would often say, “You were born to fly, Ziya. Just like all of us.”
But Ziya would shake her head. “What if I wasn’t? What if the sky isn’t for me?”

Each day, her siblings soared farther and faster, returning to the nest with stories of rivers that glittered like mirrors and clouds soft enough to dream on. Ziya listened quietly, her heart aching with longing. She wanted to fly — more than anything — but the fear inside her clipped her wings before she ever left the branch.

One day, a fierce storm rolled over the forest. Winds howled like wolves, and lightning crackled across the sky. As the tree swayed violently, Ziya clung to the nest while her family flew to safety. A sudden gust knocked the nest sideways, and before she could cry out, Ziya was thrown into the open air.

Time slowed.

She felt the air rush past her feathers, the ground spinning beneath her. She flailed, screamed, and tumbled — but just before she hit the forest floor, a gust of wind caught her tiny wings. Instinct kicked in. She opened her wings wide, tilted her body, and glided — clumsily, but alive — toward a low branch.

Breathing hard, heart pounding, Ziya landed.

Not gracefully. Not elegantly. But she had flown.

For the first time, she didn’t ask, “What if I fall?” She whispered, “What if I rise?”

That night, she stayed on that branch, drenched and shivering, but with something new burning inside her: a flicker of belief.

The next morning, the sun rose on a changed Ziya. Her family returned, frantically calling her name, and when they found her — perched, wings tucked, alive — her mother wept.

“I flew,” Ziya said softly. “Not far. Not well. But I flew.”

From that day forward, she trained herself. Not because someone told her to. Because she wanted to.

She climbed higher. She jumped more. She fell again. And again. But each fall was shorter, each recovery stronger. She began to learn the wind’s rhythm, to feel the lift in her feathers, to trust the air beneath her.

One afternoon, after weeks of secret practice, Ziya stood on a sunlit branch — the same one where her siblings once launched into the skies. She looked down, then up. Then, without a whisper of doubt, she leapt.

This time, there was no flailing. No fear.

There was flight.

Her wings stretched fully, steady and strong. She soared over the treetops, her shadow dancing on the leaves below. The wind roared past her like applause. She wasn’t the fastest or the highest flyer — but she was free.

Ziya flew over the rivers her siblings described, through clouds that kissed her beak, and above valleys where the wind sang in ancient tongues. With every beat of her wings, she felt more alive than ever.

And with every mile she traveled, her dream grew louder: One day, I will teach others like me — the scared, the hesitant, the forgotten — that they, too, were born to fly.

Years passed. Ziya became known as “The Dream-Wing.” Not because of her speed, but because of her heart. She gathered young birds from every corner of the forest — sparrows who were told they were too small, owlets mocked for being clumsy, parrots told to sing, not fly.

She taught them to believe, to fall without fear, and to see failure not as a cage, but as a step on the staircase to the sky.

Ziya’s school wasn’t the tallest tree, nor the brightest. But it became the most magical. Not because it promised success — but because it promised hope.

And every night, when the stars appeared and the forest quieted, Ziya would sit on the same branch she once feared, watching her students glide above the trees. Some still stumbled. Some still doubted. But all of them kept trying.

Because they had seen what was possible.

Because one bird — scared and small — had once whispered: “What if I rise?”