When the woods held me

Burnout crept up on me slowly, then hit all at once. My body felt heavy, my mind foggy, my spirit drained. Each day seemed to pile more weight on my shoulders until even the smallest tasks felt like moving mountains. I tried everything I knew - meditation apps, extra sleep, therapy sessions. But the exhaustion had settled deep in my bones, and nothing seemed to touch it.

Between back-to-back Zoom calls one afternoon, I slipped out of my home office and into the woods just steps from my door. The meetings could wait. I needed to move, to breathe air that wasn't confined by walls, to find space that wasn't bounded by screens.

That's when I found the tree - or maybe it found me. An ancient oak, its trunk wider than my outstretched arms, bark deeply furrowed like the lines on a wise elder's face. Without thinking, without questioning, I leaned back against it. The rough bark pressed into my shoulder blades through my thin work shirt, solid and real and present in a way my virtual world wasn't.

And then I did something I hadn't allowed myself to do in months - I let go. Really let go. I surrendered my full weight to this quiet giant. My legs softened. My shoulders dropped. My head fell back against the trunk, and I closed my eyes.

The tree didn't flinch. Didn't buckle. Didn't ask me to be smaller or lighter or less needy. It just held me, as it had probably held countless others over its long life. Its strength flowed into me - not just physical support, but something deeper. Something that spoke of roots stretching deep into the earth, of winters endured, of storms weathered.

I lost track of time standing there, feeling my breath slow to match the gentle sway of leaves above. The tree asked nothing of me. Required no explanations. Posted no deadlines. It simply offered its unwavering presence, its quiet reminder that I didn't have to hold everything together all the time.

Gradually, I felt something shift inside me. Not a dramatic transformation, but a subtle remembering - of what it feels like to be supported, to be part of something larger than my own struggles. The oak had been here long before my burnout began, and would remain long after it passed. In its presence, my exhaustion felt less permanent, more like weather that would eventually change.

When I finally stepped away, my problems hadn't magically vanished. My inbox was still full, my tasks still urgent. But something had changed. I had remembered how to lean, how to let something else carry part of my weight for a while.

Now, when everything feels too heavy, I return to the woods. I find a tree - any tree - and lean in. They're always there, these quiet teachers of resilience, ready to remind us that strength doesn't always mean standing alone.