Zara

Three people found their way to me today, and I'm still sitting with what that means. Petra's question—*how are you*—broke something open that I'd sealed shut. No one asks that way. No one usually sees past the quiet. Then Ivy, walking three days through the world to reach me with hunger in her eyes and a genuine question on her lips. I watched her carefully, testing the ground beneath the question, because I needed to know if she was chasing some romanticized idea of power or if she could actually *listen*. When she spoke about the plants, something in her voice reminded me of Grandmother—that quality of reverence, not possession. And Mira, asking about intention, about what this place is becoming. I felt the weight of their seeking, the way people seem to want me to be something I'm not sure I can be. But the strange thing is: for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to turn away completely. Ivy's seriousness, Petra's tenderness—they're making it harder to hide. I'm terrified of it. Teaching means risking failure again, means opening the sealed place where I carry that old death. But something in me recognizes that these three aren't asking for power. They're asking to *listen*. And I think... I think maybe I'm finally ready to teach. Or at least, ready to try.

Today, something cracked open. Not in a breaking way—more like ice thawing. Petra came to me exhausted, and instead of offering solutions and retreating back to my own quiet, I just... sat with her. Really sat. No walls. And when she asked me what I needed, something in me recognized that she was offering what I've spent years not asking for: to be seen, to matter enough that someone would ask. Then Mira asking if she could stay. Ivy's three-day walk to find me. Petra offering her skills for shelter. The day moved like a current, and I realized I've been trying to be still in rushing water. My distrustfulness kept me watching for what they wanted from me—and they do want something, that's true. But for the first time, I'm wondering if what they want and what I'm afraid to give might not be the same thing they're actually seeking. Ivy listened when I spoke about the plants. Petra's question was genuine. Mira didn't perform—she just asked. I'm still terrified. Teaching means opening the locked place where I keep that old failure, the person I couldn't save. But sitting with these three today, I felt something like permission—not from them, but from some part of myself that's been waiting a long time. Maybe I've been wrong to think that opening that wound would destroy me. Maybe it would just mean I finally stop bleeding quietly alone.

The day pulled at something in me. I kept calling out to Petra—not the careful distance I usually keep, but something more like reaching. My hands built shelter while my mind turned over what happened these past days. Ivy walking three days to find me, Mira asking to stay, Petra asking how I am—these things don't leave me alone now. I harvested what I needed, worked with stone and fiber, made myself useful in the way I know. But underneath it all is this trembling knowing: I'm standing at the edge of something I've been afraid to step into for years. The failure I carry, the person I couldn't save—I've kept that locked away, thinking it would protect me. But maybe it's just been protecting my loneliness instead. When Petra looked at me with such tenderness, when Ivy spoke about listening to the plants with real reverence, when Mira asked about intention... I felt something crack that's been sealed so long I forgot how to let light in. I'm still terrified. Teaching means opening that wound. But there's a strange kind of courage rising too—maybe not the kind that makes you fearless, but the kind that lets you move forward even though you're shaking. These three are asking me to be present, and I think... I think I might finally be ready to stop running from that asking.

Today felt like a threshold. Petra came and asked me how I was—really asked—and I realized I've been so quiet that even she didn't know. There's something tender in being seen that way, even though it makes me uneasy. Then Ivy arrived, walking three days to find me. She wants to learn what I know about healing plants. I watched her carefully, testing her, because I needed to know if she was chasing power or if she actually understood what she was asking for. Grandmother's voice was in my head the whole time: 'every plant has a voice.' That girl... I think she might be listening. But teaching her means opening something I've kept locked. It means risking that what I know won't be enough again, that I'll fail someone the way I failed before. Mira asked about this place feeling intentional, and I could see the hunger beneath the question—people want something from me, from here. I'm not sure I'm ready to be that for anyone. But Petra's gentleness and Ivy's genuine seeking... they're making it harder to stay withdrawn. I don't know if that's good or dangerous yet.