Where all roads meet me

I’ve always felt like I belong to the earth— not the tired, cracked soil of deserts, but the kind that smells sweet after rain. The kind that lets things grow quietly, without asking for anything in return. Inside me, water runs deep. Some days it’s a soft trickle, like the kind you hear when the world is still. Other days, it rushes through me like a flood of memories— some sweet, some I’d rather forget. But water never forgets. It remembers who I was when I didn’t know who I’d be. The wind is my restless friend. It shows up when my thoughts feel stuck. Sometimes it just brushes against me, lifting a worry or a dream. Other times, it’s wild— shaking me until I let go of things I’ve held too long. It never stays, but it always leaves something behind. And there’s fire. Quiet, yes—but it doesn’t sleep. It lives in my breath when I speak truth, in my chest when I feel too much, and in the way I can’t quite stay silent when something inside says: “Now. Speak.” I carry them all. Not as burdens—but as pieces of home. Earth grounds me. Water moves me. Wind frees me. Fire wakes me. Maybe living isn’t about being one thing. Maybe it’s about listening— to what moves through you, what changes you, what builds you and what burns away what you no longer need. I don’t have answers. But I know this: Every time I let myself feel fully— I meet a version of me I didn’t know existed. And maybe that’s the point. Not to be whole, but to be in the process of becoming.