Hey everyone,
I never thought I’d be doing this, pouring my heart out on social media. But sometimes, sharing is the only way to heal, and maybe someone out there will read this and feel a little less alone.
For as long as I can remember, our family had a giant oak tree in the backyard. It was a constant in my life, its sturdy branches a refuge for my childhood dreams. I remember my dad teaching me how to climb it, helping me carve my initials into its bark. It was our tree, our guardian.
When my father passed away unexpectedly two years ago, I struggled to find closure. We’d never really talked about emotions. Well, he hadn’t. And there were so many questions left unanswered. How did he feel about me? Was he proud of the person I was becoming? I imagine these are questions most people ask when they lose someone, but it haunted me.
Yesterday, I decided to clean out the shed. It was full of old tools, rusty nails, and memories. As I sorted through boxes, I found a small, dusty notebook, its edges worn with time. At first, I didn’t recognize it. But as I flipped through the pages, I realized it was my father’s journal.
The entries weren’t dated, but they had the unmistakable scribbles of someone who preferred action to words. It was mostly lists and sketches of projects he wanted to do around the house or ideas he’d jotted down. Then I came across a page that took my breath away.
“Remember the oak,” it read, alongside a crudely drawn picture of our tree. Beneath it, he had written: “It stands strong, roots deep. Like how I feel about you.”
I don’t know how long I sat there, just staring at those words. In that moment, so many things clicked into place. It was as if the world had rearranged itself, and suddenly, it all made sense. My father had always been someone who expressed himself through actions rather than words. He never said much, but now I knew he’d been speaking to me all along, just in a language I hadn’t understood.
I spent the evening under the oak, leaning against its ancient trunk, feeling connected to him. Understanding that, in his own way, he had told me he loved me, that he was proud. The oak had always been a symbol, and I had been too blind to see it.
I cried, though not from sadness, but from relief. Each tear felt like it washed a layer of grief away, leaving me more at peace.
This discovery changed something in me. It was like I had found a key to a locked door inside myself, a door behind which I had unknowingly stored away so much heartache and doubt. I’ve decided to live my life more openly, to communicate better with those I love. I’m starting with this post.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Thank you for being a part of this journey toward understanding, acceptance, and love. I hope you find your own oak tree and that it speaks to you in ways you never expected.
With love,
Emily
