The Forgotten Path, and Self I Met Again

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 The Forgotten Path, and the Self I Met Again


There are moments in life when we feel lost.
Not because we took the wrong road,
but because we have been walking the same one for too long.

I used to think that when a path disappears from our lives,
it means it no longer matters.
Now I know that some paths don’t disappear —
they wait.

When I was a child, I often walked through a small park near my home with my parents.
Every corner felt familiar.
Every turn felt safe.
I didn’t know then that those simple walks were quietly becoming part of who I was.

As years passed, life grew faster.
My steps became automatic.
Home to work. Work to home.
The park faded into something I no longer remembered needing.

One afternoon, by chance, I returned there.
The place felt smaller than I remembered.
But the air was the same.

Leaves rustled above me.
The bench where I once sat was still there.
And suddenly, memories I hadn’t invited came rushing back.

I wasn’t just remembering the place.
I was remembering myself.

I walked slowly, letting the past and present overlap.
The child I used to be walked beside the person I had become.
Neither hurried the other.

In that moment, I understood something quietly, without words:
Getting lost is not always a failure.
Sometimes, it is an invitation.

The paths we forget are not empty.
They are filled with versions of ourselves we once knew —
dreams we placed down gently,
feelings we thought we had outgrown.

Walking those paths again does not trap us in the past.
It gives us the strength to move forward with more honesty.

Losing a path can be painful.
But finding it again can feel like coming home.

Perhaps one day, without planning to,
you’ll step onto a road you thought was gone.
When you do, walk slowly.

You might meet someone important there.
You.




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Not Everything Needs My Full Weight

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The Back We Will One Day Show

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The Backs We Watch Watching someone’s back quietly, without calling their name, makes my heart a little more beautiful, a little more humble. The back of a delicate bird that flies away the moment you speak. The back of a white butterfly that dances off before you even think to call it. The back of a poet who stays for a long while, just because the sunset by the sea is beautiful. The backs of nuns walking slowly along a corridor, or sitting in silence, praying. And then— one day, before leaving this world, my mother appeared in my dream, empty-handed, walking toward the gate of the convent, her back turned to me. At a funeral hall, the backs of family members standing again and again before the portrait of someone they loved. Why do backs always look a little sadder than faces? Why do they make us stare at the horizon, as if waiting for something we cannot name? Perhaps it is because, someday, we know we will also leave quietly— imagining in advance the back we will one day show to th...
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She Simply Made Space

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The Quiet Act of Waiting She was not someone who tried to keep things. She was someone who knew how to let them go. Her hand was empty— not calling the bird, not preparing to hold it. Just open, as if flying away was always allowed. The white bird carried a letter, but she did not wonder what it said. Some feelings are already delivered long before they arrive. Things that leave rarely offer explanations. Understanding is left to those who remain. Petals fell. The light leaned toward evening. Below her, the city breathed as if nothing had changed at all. She was not waiting. She knew even waiting can become a way of holding on. So she simply made space. Some goodbyes are spoken through posture, not words. And some kinds of love remain only by knowing how to release them.
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