Laura Loveless (Patreon)

Laura Loveless — “Me and the Tree”

I wasn’t planning on being photographed that day. Honestly, I wasn’t planning on much of anything. I’d only stopped by that little café in Old Town for a coffee I didn’t even want… and there it was on the window — this crumpled flyer about an art project on nature and renewal.

“Renewal.”

The word stared at me like it knew exactly what I’d been avoiding.

So, of course, I messaged him. Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to poke at a version of myself I’d half forgotten.

Two days later, I’m standing in Coate Water Park, pretending I know what I’m doing, pretending I’m not mildly terrified. And then Moroi — quiet voice, gentle energy — tells me I don’t need to pose.

Just breathe.

Just… exist.

Which sounded suspiciously like a trap.

But then he pointed at this enormous oak tree, all ancient bark and attitude.

“That’s the one,” he said. “It remembers things.”

I couldn’t help teasing him a little.

“Oh? And what exactly does it remember?”

He just smiled.

“Anyone who’s leaned on it.”

So there I was, leaning on an oak like I meant it. Letting the wind play with my hair. Touching the bark with my fingertips — slow and curious — wondering if the tree felt as dramatic about this moment as I did.

And I’ll admit it:

for someone who hadn’t felt anything in months,

I suddenly felt… bold.

Like the forest was watching me, waiting to see what I’d do next.

The session was quiet. No posing, no pressure, just me and a tree and a camera that clicked whenever I forgot to act like a normal person. Every so often, I’d catch Moroi looking up from the lens with that “yes, that” expression, which of course just made me lean a little closer to the tree, or tilt my chin, or let my hand wander along the bark like I was whispering secrets into the grain.

What can I say?

The moment got to me.

When we finished, he said I looked peaceful.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or hide.

Peaceful isn’t something I’d claimed in a very long time.

Weeks passed. I figured the whole thing would sink into memory — one more tiny rebellion against a life that had gone too quiet.

Then his email arrived.

The photo…

it didn’t look like the girl who’d been hiding for months.

It looked like someone steady, someone sure of her place against that old oak.

Someone who knew exactly how to lean —

and exactly what kind of attention she could draw when she wanted to.

I printed it and pinned it above my desk.

Not as proof that I looked good,

but as proof that I could feel like myself again…

or maybe an even braver version of her.

And every morning, I look at that picture and think:

That tree remembered me.

And I think…

maybe I’m finally ready to remember myself too