You don’t have to plant a garden

You don’t have to walk the forest trail and notice the way the sunlight touches the bracken, or how the popple leaves show their silvery undersides for one last time on an autumn breeze before they yellow, then fall

You don’t have to step into the slow waters of the river and feel the slip of smooth stones beneath your toes

You don’t have to exhale. You don’t have to open your hands or allow your shoulders to fall away from your ears

You don’t have to wonder how we all got here. Why things turned out this way. What causes someone to bend so far they break

You have your lists:

People Who Are Selfish

People Who Are Toxic

People Who Are Wrong

Your name won’t appear on a single one of them

You don’t have to heal

You don’t have to unclench your jaw or soften the corners of your eyes. You don’t have to face your own reflection

You don’t have to own anything

You don’t have to build a solace, a shelter, a home. You already have this echo chamber – it’s dim and draughty, but the rent is free

So burn every letter, every card, every apology. Delete the texts that don’t suit your narrative. 

I love you

Happy birthday

I see you

I’m proud of you

Build stories around your stories – read and recite them like your holy book of truth

Bind the pages and hold them to your chest. Declare it all again…

This pain is mine

This pain is mine

This pain is me

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By Stacy Ryan

October 25, 2026