As an introvert and an only child, solitude has always been my default—my safe harbor, my creative fuel. I've never needed a crowd to feel whole. But these early days of the pandemic have taught me something unexpected: there's a difference between choosing solitude and having it forced upon you by a world that can no longer breathe.
Today, I find myself longing for things I once took for granted. The easy warmth of a hug. The nearness of friends. The simple, human comfort of presence without fear.
And in the quiet of my isolation, my mind wanders to trees.
Forests are the lungs of the earth—ancient, patient, essential. They breathe for us, filtering what we've poisoned, giving back what we need to survive. And yet, we've destroyed so many of them. Clear-cut. Burned. Bulldozed. We've made it harder for the earth to breathe, much like this virus has made it harder for so many of us.
The parallel breaks my heart.
We are witnessing what happens when breath becomes precious, when something invisible and vital is suddenly, violently compromised. The earth has been gasping for decades. Now, so are we.
My heart aches for all the suffering—for those fighting to breathe in hospital beds, for frontline workers drowning in exhaustion, for families separated by fear and distance, for the grieving, the isolated, the afraid. For a planet that's been warning us all along.
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