If Only Trees Could Talk

Chapter 5: When the Sky Cracks Open

(A lesson in surviving storms.)

It began like all storms do—
Quiet.
Almost gentle.
The kind of sky that looks tired, like it's been carrying too many secrets for too long.

The wind didn't howl. It sighed.
As if the forest was bracing itself.
And so were you.

You walked into the woods, your head heavy with all the words you couldn't say out loud.
People said you were "too emotional,"
"too quiet,"
"too dramatic."

They didn't know that sometimes, just waking up feels like dragging your soul through a hurricane.

But the forest—
it didn't call you too much.
It just... accepted.

Today, the tree didn't greet you with warmth.
Today, it was drenched.
Its bark soaked, its branches trembling under the weight of the coming storm.

"The sky breaks so the earth can breathe," it whispered.

You tilted your face upward.
The clouds looked swollen. Filled with something raw and heavy.
And then—it cracked.

Lightning split the sky like a scream in a library.
Thunder rolled in, deep and hollow, like a drumbeat from the underworld.

You flinched.
But the tree didn't.

"Do you see me running?" it asked.
"Do you see the forest panicking?"

No.
The trees stayed.
Rooted.
Solid.
Shaking—but still standing.

"The storm doesn't destroy me.
It reminds me that I was built to endure,"
it said, voice like thunder in your chest.

And that hit hard.
Because all your life, you thought breaking meant weakness.
Crying meant failure.
Needing people meant you were clingy, dramatic, too sensitive.

But here in this storm, surrounded by towering trees and whipping wind, you saw something new:

Breaking isn't the opposite of strength.
Sometimes, it's the proof of it.

The rain hit your skin like a thousand apologies you never got.
Cold. Honest.
It soaked through your clothes, your shoes, your walls.

You wanted to run.
But you didn't.

Instead, you let the rain touch your skin.
You let the thunder fill your lungs.
You stood there, like the tree did.

Unmoving.
Unapologetic.
Present.

"You've been taught to hate your storms," the tree said,
"But they are not your enemy."

You thought about all the breakdowns you've had behind closed doors.
The times you whispered "I'm fine" while your insides were screaming.
The way people told you to "cheer up" when all you needed was to feel.

And the storm—this beautiful, furious chaos—it understood.

"Some growth requires damage," the tree hummed.
"Some lessons demand thunder."

The wind howled louder now, but it didn't scare you.
Because suddenly, you realized:

You've survived storms far worse than this.
The silent ones inside your own head.
The invisible ones that no one applauded you for surviving.

So you let yourself cry.
Not from pain.
But from release.

You weren't broken.
You were blooming.
Through the storm. Because of it.

The sky didn't crack to punish the earth.
It cracked to water it.
To wake it up.

And you—
you are waking up too.

"You feared the storm because you never realized
you were the storm.
And storms don't beg to be understood—
they just pass,
and change everything they touch."

"Let the sky break. Let it roar.
Some storms don't destroy you—
they reveal you."