Most mornings before work I park my car and watch this willow sway quietly in the breeze. As the months have slipped by, I have watched silently as it’s leaves turned from green to gold, and on these chilly mornings I have watched them slip quietly from its weeping branches. One by one they have fallen to the ground as this beautiful giant begins releasing its hold on what used to help it breathe…what used to help it drink in the sun. It’s doing what it needs to in order to survive the cold, dark days ahead.

Today—Thanksgiving Day—felt a lot like trying to process a strange kind of grief; a grief that can’t really be named…can’t be grasped or even touched. It mingled uncomfortably with moments of joy and laughter. I know I have a lot to be thankful for, but I have felt so deeply this quiet, slow death of the way I used to think my life would be. So much has fallen away from me. Each day I release another leaf, my fingers growing tired of gripping these things that no longer help me breathe…can no longer offer me life. And as painful as it feels in this moment, I will keep releasing whatever I need to in order to survive the days ahead. Because my people need me. My dearest ones…they need me. So although at the end of this I may be nothing more than bare, weeping branches, I will brace myself against the winter, knowing that on the other side—one day—there will be green again.