The wind was warm that morning as I walked the stone path leading out of our village. My heart raced, though I didn’t know why. I wasn’t running from anything—not yet, anyway. My name is Lian, and I was known in the village for being smart, quick, and always helping others. But inside, I felt tired. I was always trying to be the best, to fix everything, to do more.
That day, I just walked. I didn’t bring tools. No basket. No plans.
Somewhere between the rice fields and the hills, I saw him—a wrinkled old man sitting under a tree, eyes half closed, smiling like he'd just heard the world’s best joke. There was nothing fancy about him. His robes were plain and dusty. His hair floated like the clouds above.
“Are you lost?” I asked.
He opened one eye and looked at me kindly. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I have forgotten what there is to lose.”
I blinked. What kind of answer was that?
“I’m not lost,” I said. “Just... tired. Always helping. Always trying to be better.”
“Helping is not a burden,” he said. “Trying is.”
That made no sense. “But if I don’t try, I won’t grow.”
The man chuckled softly. “Do trees try to grow? Do rivers try to flow?”
I sat beside him, hugging my knees, confused. “But I have to work hard. Everyone counts on me.”
He looked up at the leaves fluttering above. “The leaf does not carry the tree. Still, it dances in the wind. You are dancing too fast, young one.”
“What should I do, then? Stop being myself?”
He turned his gaze toward me. “No. You must forget the self you made up—the one chasing medals in the mind. Let go... and trust the flow.”
I didn’t understand, not really. But we sat in silence. The wind sang through the branches. A bird hopped near my foot. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time—stillness.
Days passed. I returned home but didn’t rush. I still worked. I still helped. But there was less struggle in it. I no longer needed to prove anything. I started to notice small things—how the moonlight rested on rooftops, how water curved around rocks, how people smiled when I just listened.
Little by little, I forgot the version of myself that was always trying.
I remembered that wrinkled man, who forgot his self and smiled just the same.
And slowly, I began to see: I didn’t need to push the river. I only needed to flow with it.
I am still learning. But now, when the world feels heavy, I sit beneath a tree, breathe deeply, and remember—
Sometimes the greatest peace comes not from becoming more, but from becoming less.
From letting go.
From simply being.
The wind was warm that morning as I walked the stone path leading out of our village. My heart raced, though I didn’t know why. I wasn’t running from anything—not yet, anyway. My name is Lian, and I was known in the village for being smart, quick, and always helping others. But inside, I felt tired. I was always trying to be the best, to fix everything, to do more.
That day, I just walked. I didn’t bring tools. No basket. No plans.
Somewhere between the rice fields and the hills, I saw him—a wrinkled old man sitting under a tree, eyes half closed, smiling like he'd just heard the world’s best joke. There was nothing fancy about him. His robes were plain and dusty. His hair floated like the clouds above.
“Are you lost?” I asked.
He opened one eye and looked at me kindly. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I have forgotten what there is to lose.”
I blinked. What kind of answer was that?
“I’m not lost,” I said. “Just... tired. Always helping. Always trying to be better.”
“Helping is not a burden,” he said. “Trying is.”
That made no sense. “But if I don’t try, I won’t grow.”
The man chuckled softly. “Do trees try to grow? Do rivers try to flow?”
I sat beside him, hugging my knees, confused. “But I have to work hard. Everyone counts on me.”
He looked up at the leaves fluttering above. “The leaf does not carry the tree. Still, it dances in the wind. You are dancing too fast, young one.”
“What should I do, then? Stop being myself?”
He turned his gaze toward me. “No. You must forget the self you made up—the one chasing medals in the mind. Let go... and trust the flow.”
I didn’t understand, not really. But we sat in silence. The wind sang through the branches. A bird hopped near my foot. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time—stillness.
Days passed. I returned home but didn’t rush. I still worked. I still helped. But there was less struggle in it. I no longer needed to prove anything. I started to notice small things—how the moonlight rested on rooftops, how water curved around rocks, how people smiled when I just listened.
Little by little, I forgot the version of myself that was always trying.
I remembered that wrinkled man, who forgot his self and smiled just the same.
And slowly, I began to see: I didn’t need to push the river. I only needed to flow with it.
I am still learning. But now, when the world feels heavy, I sit beneath a tree, breathe deeply, and remember—
Sometimes the greatest peace comes not from becoming more, but from becoming less.
From letting go.
From simply being.
