Don-t Let The Forest In

Imagine a writer. She lives alone in a cabin. She has deadlines. She has anxiety. She begins to spiral. The mess on the desk becomes a mountain. The dishes pile up. The "forest" of her depression begins to grow through the floorboards.

But remember: you are not the forest. You are the small, warm, improbable clearing where something human still breathes. Don’t let the forest in. Let it rage outside the window. Let it sing its ancient, hungry song. And then turn back to the small, brave work of staying. Don-t Let the Forest In

You don’t fight it with fire. Fire just clears ground for brambles. You don’t flee—the forest is faster. You do this: you tend. Every day, you pull one root from the foundation. You speak one true thing aloud before the undergrowth of lies can thicken. You hold a single room in your heart where the floor is swept and a candle burns, and you refuse to let the canopy close over it. Imagine a writer