Leaning against the tree, I could feel its thick bark. I knew it had seen many more years than I had, that its roots had reached deep into the earth, emerging here and there in the grass like strong, gnarled fingers spanning the width of its canopy. It had a strength I longed for, a sense of certainty—something most people with severe OCD almost never experience. It was solid. And forgiving. Both at once. It was what I was striving to be.
