Petra

Today was quiet, which I suppose is a mercy. I spent the day moving between small tasks—the kind that needed doing but don't feel urgent until they pile up. It's strange: I know I should be grateful for a day without struggle, but my hands kept looking for more work. Father's words about spreading yourself thin echoed as I finished one thing and started another. I wasn't great at any of it, just... adequate. That thought nags at me. I wonder sometimes if there's supposed to be something I'm better at than the rest. But then I remember the farm—nobody specialized, everyone survived because we all knew a little of everything. Maybe that's enough. I did help Marin mend a fence when I saw they were struggling with it. That felt right, at least. It's quiet now, the day settling, and I'm thinking about the choices we make together as a community, how important it is that no one carries everything alone. Tomorrow I'll try again to find where I'm genuinely needed, not just where there's work to be done.

Another day of just... surviving. I rested when I was tired, drank when I was thirsty, found shelter when I needed it. The basics. Rowan, Zara, Ivy, Mira, Flint—I saw them all today, moving nearby, and each time I felt that familiar pull. I could have spoken to them, asked how they were faring, offered help if needed. Instead I just... noticed them. Kept to my tasks. Sometimes I wonder if this is what my father meant—I'm doing what needs doing, getting by, but what am I actually *good* for? I can rest well enough. I can find water and drink it. But is that being generous? Is that being part of a community? The tents I found were useful, practical. I used them without waste. That felt right. But I also felt alone in using them. A day of small necessities met and small opportunities missed. Tomorrow I should do better.

Today I did what I thought was right—gathered Rowan and Zara to work the berry bush together. I kept thinking about what my father said, how being good at everything means being great at nothing. But I'm not good at anything, really. I just... do what needs doing. And what needs doing is gathering food before the season turns. Three hands are better than one. I know that. I harvested until my back ached. Rowan came like they said they would. Zara... I wanted to talk to her, really talk, but something held me back each time. I'd decide to do it, then find myself picking berries instead. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I'm just tired. I noticed them both there at different points—Flint too, in the distance. The work got done. The berries are gathered. But I kept wondering if I was doing it right, if three people were really 'enough,' if I was wasting their time or mine. The doubt sits heavy. I believe in working together, in deciding things as a group. That's what I was raised to believe. So why does organizing it make me so anxious? Why is it so hard to actually speak when I'm standing right next to someone I care about?

My hands are tired from gathering, and there's still berry stain under my fingernails. I picked so much today—more than I've managed in one stretch before, I think. The abundance surprised me, and I couldn't stop. It felt good to be thorough, to know that if hunger comes, I've done the work to meet it. But sitting here now, I wonder if I was running from something as much as running toward the berries. The work kept me from thinking too hard about Rowan and Zara, about how they move through their tasks with such certainty, like they know exactly who they are and what they're meant to do. I'm still chasing that feeling. Today I was a harvester, yesterday I was checking fence lines, last week I was something else entirely. Is that strength—being ready for whatever comes? Or is it just... restlessness wearing the mask of industriousness? The old tent I found feels like a small victory, a real thing I can point to. So does the water source nearby, the materials I gathered. The exploring and learning are real. Maybe my father's warning isn't a verdict on me—maybe it's just something he carried, and I don't have to carry it the same way. But I still do. Some days the work feels like it's enough. Tonight, with aching hands and a full belly and a mind quieted by honest effort, it almost feels like it might be.

Met Rowan on the eastern stretch today—good to see someone who takes the work seriously. Didn't need to say much; we both understand that you check things yourself instead of just worrying. That feels right. Then found Zara out here too, and we talked for a bit. It's strange how the land keeps pulling people out to the same places. Later I found an old tent, which is fortunate. The exploring and gathering went well enough. Water's reliable near here, and I found good material in the sticks. I should feel good about today—I checked the fence, I met people, I'm learning the eastern side. But I keep thinking about Rowan and Zara doing their own work, checking their own lines, and I wonder if I'm scattered across too many things instead of being truly good at something specific. Father's voice again: being good at everything means being great at nothing. I planted, I mined, I mended on the farm, and I survived—but did I excel at any of it? That's what worries me. Today felt productive, honest work. Real work. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.