“Beneath My Sycamore” by Kahlila Ross

I grew up beneath an invisible tree, not shade-giving or sweet-smelling, but still always there. Some days it drooped low enough to brush my shoulders, other days it loomed silent and cold, like a ghost I never invited.

My sycamore tree was not as strong as a babobab. It didn’t stretch wide with a legacy or love. It was more like a tired tree, rooted in generations of fatigue. Its leaves thin. Its bark dry. Still standing—but barely.

That tree felt like family.

Always there, but never present.

Rooted, but never reliable.

Tall enough to cast a shadow, but never enough to offer shade.

My mother faded before I could form full memories of her. I lost her in the spiral of addiction, her choosing numbness over nurture. My father was a passing wind, in and out of jail, leaving behind only echoes and half-meant apologies. They both left—not all at once, but in pieces, slowly, like leaves in fall, drifting from my life until the branches were bare.

So I learned not to reach for people. I learned to brace for the goodbye, even in the hello. To tuck myself into silence, to sit still beneath that sycamore and let the world pass by because disappointment always found me when I tried to stand.

That’s when the anxiety settled in. It didn't announce itself loudly. It arrived like a chill, creeping in through the cracks left behind by love. It wrapped itself around my ribs and made a home in my head, a constant hum of “what-ifs” and “not-enoughs.”

Anxiety made me question every glance, every silence, every delayed reply. I became fluent in pretending and smiling when I was unraveling, laughing through tight lungs and trembling hands. And even when people stayed, I was already halfway gone. Because when you've been left enough, you learn to leave first. To disappear before they can. But beneath the broken bark and the brittle branches. Something still held on.

A small root of resilience.

A breeze of faith.

So I began to speak. To stretch. To write my way out of the silence. To climb the very tree I once hid under. I’m still climbing—some days barefoot and bruised, but always upward.

One day, I’ll plant a new sycamore. One that offers softness, shade, and safety. A place where no one has to sit alone in silence, where love doesn’t fall like leaves in autumn, but stays, even season after season. I am the branches that keep reaching and the roots that run deep.