the tree within me

April 6, 2025
Dhaka

This morning, beneath the quiet rhythm of a warm shower, a thought came—not as revelation, but as something gentler, more persistent. The kind of thought that doesn’t announce itself with urgency, but settles in slowly, like mist against a window.

It began with an image: a tree.

I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the stillness, or the faint scent of soap and rising steam. But suddenly, I could see it—tall, steady, unhurried. A tree doesn’t speak. It doesn’t chase. It simply extends: roots deepening into the earth, branches stretching outward, open to whatever seeks rest beneath its shade. It offers without asking. And in doing so, it becomes something others return to, again and again.

There are people like that. Maybe you know one. Maybe you are one. You listen without interrupting. You comfort without spectacle. You hold space when others need to fall apart. You become—without planning to—a kind of refuge.

But even trees need tending. Soil. Light. Water. Care. Left alone too long, even the sturdiest among them begin to weaken. Not all at once, but quietly—first in the roots, then in the branches, until what once seemed unwavering begins to fade at the edges.

I’ve been that tree, I think. Reaching outward, offering warmth, showing up even when I had little left. And for a time, I believed that giving—on its own—was enough. That to love without expectation was a kind of strength.

But the body keeps score. So does the heart. And eventually, something begins to shift. Not into anger or blame, but into something quieter. A dulling. A hollowing. A soft retreat from what once felt vital. Calls go unanswered, messages unread—not out of malice, but because something inside no longer rises to meet them.

It’s not a punishment. It’s erosion.

To care deeply and continuously without being cared for in return is not sustainable. Even the most generous spirits need to be seen, to be met, to be watered now and then. Not with grand gestures, but with presence. A kind word. A quiet acknowledgment that says, you matter too.

We don’t stop blooming all at once. It happens in increments. A smaller laugh. A shorter reply. A kindness withheld, not out of spite, but because it no longer feels safe to give. What once felt infinite becomes measured. Conditional. Cautious.

And yet, this isn’t a story about bitterness. If anything, it’s a reminder: that even those who seem self-sufficient are still, at heart, tender things. Trees, yes—but not immortal. We, too, require tending. Not constantly. Not extravagantly. Just enough to feel the warmth we so often offer others.

So if you know someone who has stood beside you like a tree—quietly, steadily, without asking for anything—don’t wait until their branches are bare. Water them. A little is often enough.

Because even the strongest trees cannot survive on sunlight alone.