As a child, I was terrified of the monsters I imagined lived under my tall teakwood bed. One night, I decided to face the fear. I peeked under—and found nothing. That small act of courage became a turning point. Over time, I learned that fear isn’t always something to run from. Sometimes, it’s the invitation to grow.

“Let’s go, Mom! Stop being so scared, c’mon!” my son said from the back seat, wide-eyed with excitement.

We were living in Santa Clara, just 35 minutes from San Francisco—but for me, that city felt like another world. No GPS, just MapQuest printouts and a deep fear of getting lost.

But he believed in me.

And so I drove. Slowly. Hesitantly. Then again. And again.

Once, on the shore of a mighty ocean, a mother sparrow built her nest and laid her eggs. She chose a quiet spot nestled among the dune grass, where she could warm them in the morning sun and whisper songs of the sky to the tiny lives growing inside.

This is where my life meets reflection, where everyday moments turn into something meaningful. 

Dear reader, as you begin this journey with me, I want to share the story that sparked it all—the why behind the words, and my heart behind the voice.

I love snails—tiny, slimy, and oddly adorable. There’s something about their slow, deliberate pace that has always fascinated me. In many ways, my life mirrored that pace for the longest time.

Beneath the surface of a quiet forest, something magical happens: roots intertwine, signals travel, and support flows. It’s a world of invisible strength. Of deep connection.

This story, told through the lives of two birch trees—Aria and Mika—is not just a tale of nature. It’s a mirror for us. A reminder that resilience, community, and healing often begin in what can’t be seen.