Not a long, cinematic storm—no thunder, no sky-wide crescendo, no poetic deluge to make it mean something larger. Just one of those sudden summer stutters that slips through the valley like it remembered something it meant to say, then lost interest halfway through.
The air shifted like it always does right before the world exhales. The house got still. Not cozy still—alert still. The kind of hush that arrives right before something moves. A storm without volume, but with intent.
I was inside folding laundry. Or pretending to. I had a stack of nothing-important shirts, except one—the soft, broken-in gray tee I stole from my ex-girlfriend in 2020. I should probably let it go. She sure did. But I haven’t. Stealing it felt like a moral victory at the time, and keeping it still does. It fits wrong. It smells faintly like stale longing. It’s soaked in a version of me I don’t even recognize anymore. But it’s mine now. And that’s enough.
I draped it over the bottom right corner of my bed and did what I always do when the rain moves through—I slid on the nearest pair of Crocs, still wet from the last time, and stepped outside like I was answering something older than language.
Not chasing. Answering.
I always go straight to the pine tree; it’s been my anchor since the day we moved here. It doesn’t care how I show up—shaking, silent, blood on my shin, mascara from three days ago. It doesn’t need words. It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t need.
It just is—anchored, steady, unsentimental, and alive in a way humans rarely manage to be. The needles were heavy with rain, drooping like they were trying to forget something. I leaned in—face close, shoulder pressed against rough trunk, cheek to bark like I was listening for a heartbeat deeper than my own. I wasn’t looking for answers. Just acknowledgment.
And then there it was. That smell that I have known all my life, yet can’t describe. Wet pine. Soil. Sap. History. Breath. It’s the kind of scent that doesn’t just land in your nose—it cracks something open in your chest. It reminds you that the earth is still spinning and you’re still here and things have died and bloomed a thousand times without you. That’s not a comfort. It’s a truth. And I’ll take that over comfort any day.
This is what keeps me alive. It’s not love, not therapy, and not even instinct. It’s this quiet, post-storm ache. This scent that says you’re still here, girl. The reassurance that yes, I made it through. Again.
Sometimes I think I love the smell of rain on pine because it’s the only thing that never hurt me.
People talk about safety in arms. I never trusted arms. They hold—until they don’t. They let go. They flinch. They push. They change their minds. I’ve learned the hard way that comfort offered by a body can disappear just as fast as it came. But trees? Trees don’t lie. Bark might be rough, sure—but it’s honest. Roots might trip me, might catch the toe of my boot or rise up where I least expect them—but they mean well. They never pull away. And the pine? The pine never shrinks from me. Doesn’t care how jagged I am that day. It’s always there—silent, solid, and listening. A shelter that doesn’t question why I came. A witness that never walks away.
When I was little, I used to run into the woods after it rained—mud-streaked and quiet, pockets full of rocks and secrets. I didn’t have the words for it back then. I just knew that the trees didn’t ask anything from me. They didn’t require me to shrink or explain or pretend. They just let me exist.
I’ve been told my whole life that I’m either too much or not enough. Too intense. Too quiet. Too smart. Too queer. Too wrong. But the pine trees? They never needed me to be anything other than present.
Muddy. Bruised. Beautiful. Furious. Soft. Wordless. Whatever I brought that day—it was enough. They don’t care if I’m bleeding or if I’ve put myself back together. They don’t care if I haven’t spoken all day or if I’ve been screaming internally since 6 a.m. They just wait.
And tonight—like always—they were waiting.
I pressed my face into the bark like it was the last real thing left on this planet. Maybe it is.
Maybe this ritual isn’t about the smell at all. Maybe it’s not even about the tree. Maybe it’s about remembering who the fuck I am beneath all the noise and damage and performance.
Not what I’ve survived. Not what I’ve lost. Not who hurt me, or who couldn’t stay.
Just me.
Emily.
The girl who still runs outside when it rains.
The woman who keeps a stolen shirt like it’s sacred because it reminds her that she once walked away without looking back.
The one who doesn’t need a god, a man, a savior, or a story.
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