I’ve been walking along this forest trail for a while now. I hear the dryness of the dying leaves rustle and feel the slight breeze that the forest cannot shelter me from. As I walk, I go past a sturdy, wooden, man-made sanctuary that could easily protect me from the wilderness; yet, I trek onwards.

A short distance from that shelter, I spot a dirty white birch tree growing at an angle-- a curved bridge that reaches across the trail to grasp its relatives’ hands on the other side. At first, the way it leans makes me think it has actually fallen, but after closer inspection, I realize it’s in a lively condition, though bare because of its departed leaves. I pause to admire its odd grace, then decide to sit under it, near its base. This temporary home feels safe. I feel safe.

Blades of green grass shoot out of the soggy ground and gently border my face as I sit. Cups made from fallen leaves hold undisturbed rainfall from last night. To my right sits a thin and delicate spiderweb whose top is covered with dewdrops, but none seem to have soaked through the web, saving the spider from a devastating flood.

It was sunny as I walked, but now the clouds begin to blanket the sun. The longer I sit, the colder the breeze feels. My pessimism tells me that the weather will change and I will have to face a storm soon. Leaves falling around me sound like rain beginning to fall, and I flinch when I hear them.

I have a few options: I can walk back to the shelter I passed earlier, I could go back to the bus our class took to get to the forest, or I can stay under this tree and face whatever Mother Nature throws at me. The final option may not seem viable to anyone else, but it’s what I do.

See, I cannot leave this tree. It’s done what it has been able to do to protect me. I consider it a good friend though I’ve only known it for a few minutes. My newly found birch companion is fragile-- it’s thin and provides very little trunk to cover me. I feel guilty because there is close to nothing I can do to protect it from any danger headed its way. I am relying on it to protect me from stormy weather, yet I cannot repay it.

Though I would try my hardest, I could not shelter it.

And this birch tree can only do so much for me. It can prevent many bad things from happening to me, many more than I can protect it from, but it cannot warm my frozen hands and nose. The wind still pulls leaves from their roots and delivers them directly to me, though I did not ask for the wind’s gift. A storm hasn’t hit the area like I predicted, but if it does, the tree could not guarantee to be my umbrella without holes.

I have struggled with a cloudy sky inside my mind-- depression-- for about five years, but I have found friends to help me cope. They allow me to talk to them without overwhelming me with solutions. When a wave of negativity floods my ability to think, they fill my mind with positive thoughts. Heavy rainfalls of tears randomly burst from my eyes now and then, but my friends sit with me until I feel okay again. My moods shift quickly, just as the weather tends to, and my friends still find ways to help.

I’ve learned that I have major depressive disorder, but the possibilities of bipolar and borderline personality have not been ruled out yet. With any of those diagnoses, it would be easy for all of my friends to walk out of my life because they don’t want to deal with it. I’ve expressed that thought with them, but they all tell me that they will not leave me behind. That we’ll get through it together.

Good friends do not leave you, no matter what you are going through. They will forever be by your side and will give endless support. Friends cannot repair all bad things. They do all they can, but they cannot always prevent raindrops from falling on your head and they cannot stop the wind from giving you chills.

A good friend cannot stop every raindrop from getting my hair wet, and I will still struggle with the inconvenience, but that good friend will stop at least a few.

And that’s all I ask.

And so, I sit under the birch tree and scribble thoughts into my notebook. My friends, Myah and Katelynn, had gone deeper into the woods earlier, but now they’re standing next to me, asking if I’m ready to leave. I look around, not prepared to walk away from the comfort of this new home, but I say that I’m ready to head back to the bus with them. Katelynn reaches her hand out to me and I take it. Swiftly, she helps me stand again.