Spoken Word- The Way the Leaf Lets Go

There comes a time just before you release something when everything shakes. Not loudly, not enough for the world to take notice, but just enough for you. You sense it in your chest, like an unanswered question, like standing on the brink of something undefined. The leaf doesn’t fall due to failure or weakness; it falls because the season demands it. Yet, there is still resistance. The branch recalls the weight, the shade, the quiet companionship of what once held on. You are permitted to feel that too. Breaking doesn’t always have to be harsh; sometimes it’s a gentle surrender, a silent agreement between what was and what needs to be. Observe how the leaf glides, not hurrying, not battling the air. It turns, it sways, it trusts in something invisible. This isn’t the end; it’s a transition. Even in falling, there is a sense of direction. Even in loss, there is a form of becoming. The ground isn’t a failure; it’s a destination. What appears to be an ending is often just a new way of holding on. You are still present. Even if you feel unanchored, even if you can’t recognize the shape of your days anymore. You are still present. There will be roots that are yet unseen, and growth that may not resemble growth. There will be mornings when simply breathing feels like a triumph. Let that be sufficient. Like the leaf, you aren’t meant to hold on forever. And like the tree, you aren’t losing everything. You are evolving. And somewhere, in the quiet shifts of things, in the hidden work beneath the surface, something is getting ready to start anew. There comes a time just before you release something when everything shakes. Not loudly, not enough for the world to take notice, but just enough for you. You sense it in your chest, like an unanswered question, like standing on the brink of something undefined. The leaf doesn’t fall due to failure or weakness; it falls because the season demands it. Yet, there is still resistance. The branch recalls the weight, the shade, the quiet companionship of what once held on. You are permitted to feel that too. Breaking doesn’t always have to be harsh; sometimes it’s a gentle surrender, a silent agreement between what was and what needs to be. Observe how the leaf glides, not hurrying, not battling the air. It turns, it sways, it trusts in something invisible. This isn’t the end; it’s a transition. Even in falling, there is a sense of direction. Even in loss, there is a form of becoming. The ground isn’t a failure; it’s a destination. What appears to be an ending is often just a new way of holding on. You are still present. Even if you feel unanchored, even if you can’t recognize the shape of your days anymore. You are still present. There will be roots that are yet unseen, and growth that may not resemble growth. There will be mornings when simply breathing feels like a triumph. Let that be sufficient. Like the leaf, you aren’t meant to hold on forever. And like the tree, you aren’t losing everything. You are evolving. And somewhere, in the quiet shifts of things, in the hidden work beneath the surface, something is getting ready to start anew.