@esdotge

Shedding. Trees don’t fight it when their leaves fall. They don’t cling to every piece of green, trying to keep summer alive a few weeks longer. They simply let go. Quietly. Naturally. Almost as if they trusted that the cycle knows better than they do. Humans are much worse at this. We hold on to everything: notifications, deadlines, open tabs, tiny resentments, unfinished conversations. We move through the days, but inside we’re carrying a forest that never sheds. No wonder it’s hard to breathe. Shedding is the word. Shedding work for a weekend. Shedding the constant connection to feeds and messages. Shedding the armor we wear even at home. Not to escape, but to reset. To sit with yourself. To look at the person you share your life with and, for once, not have a screen in the middle. To talk slowly, to walk without a destination, to remember why this story started. Like the leaves, some things are meant to fall: Old expectations, roles that no longer fit, habits that keep you busy but not alive. When you let them go, you’re not “losing” parts of you—you’re making room. For rest. For new questions. For a version of you that is a bit more honest, a bit more kind. Every season of shedding is, deep down, an act of love. Love for yourself: “I don’t have to hold it all the time.” Love for the person next to you: “I choose to be here, fully, without half my mind somewhere else.” The trees don’t apologize when they go bare. They know that, sooner or later, new leaves will arrive. Maybe we need that same faith: trusting that, after we disconnect and let go, we won’t be emptier—we’ll be lighter, and more ready for everything that wants to grow next.

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