Be Like the Tree: A Wisdom from Jalal ad-Din Rumi

 

"Be like the tree, and let the dead leaves fall."

The hardest part about endings is not that they happen, but that we refuse to believe they already have. The first step in life is not to be strong, but to see the truth as it is — and then allow yourself to feel it.

Most of us believe that pain comes from endings. But for me, the difficult part is not that things end — it is that we refuse to acknowledge that they have. We try to delay the confrontation. We resist the feeling. We hold on to things that no longer resemble us — not because they still matter, but because we do not know how to let go.

It is told that a man once came to Gautama Buddha, angry and shouting insults at him. The Buddha remained silent. After the man finished, he asked him: “If someone gives you a gift and you do not accept it, to whom does it belong?” The man said: “To the one who gave it.” The Buddha replied: “Then I do not accept your anger.”

This story is not about calmness as much as it is about awareness — the ability not to carry what is not yours. Often, we do not carry only our own emotions. We carry the emotions of others, their expectations, and roles we no longer want.

Here is where the pattern of endurance begins. Endurance that appears, at first, as strength and maturity — but over time becomes something else entirely. It begins by taking your voice. You start to tolerate what does not feel right, not because you agree, but because you do not want to create tension.

With repetition, your boundaries begin to change. They do not collapse suddenly — they fade. They become less clear, and more open to compromise.

This pattern often shows up clearly at work. You remain in an environment that minimizes your effort or ignores your presence, telling yourself at first: “It is fine. It is not a big deal.” Then more is asked of you, and you accept — not because you are comfortable, but because you do not want complications.

With each time you choose silence, the situation does not change — you do. Until you get used to what no longer suits you. At that point, endurance is no longer temporary — it becomes a way of living, even at your own expense.

Not all endurance is strength. Sometimes, it is the beginning of losing your voice. Do not make yourself blindly “highly tolerant.” In the end, excessive endurance does not preserve peace — it postpones the problem and makes it deeper.

When you feel something and do not express it, you are not solving it — you are bypassing it. Over time, this does not remain just silence — it becomes a gradual distance from yourself.

Your voice is not meant to endure everything. It is meant to define what stays in your life — and what must end.

Endurance pushes you beyond yourself. Clinging keeps you where you are. Clinging is not always about love — sometimes it is about identity.

In fact, the hardest part of starting over is not learning something new, nor adapting to a different environment — it is letting go of the person you used to be.

For a long time, you may have lived inside a certain role: the one who fixes, explains, connects, or keeps everything running smoothly. That role may have been useful at one stage, but it becomes a constraint when you continue holding onto it after it no longer fits you.

Like staying in a place you know is no longer yours — simply because you are used to it.

In Buddhist philosophy, there is a simple but sharp image: “Attachment is like holding a burning ember in your hand, thinking you are holding it — while it is burning you.” The point is not the ember, but the act of holding. Not the thing itself — but continuing to hold on after it has ended.

When the environment or circumstances change, this truth becomes clearer. You find yourself in a new place, with different expectations and different roles. Here, the question is no longer: How do I succeed? It becomes: Who am I now?

And this is a decisive moment. Because if you do not define your identity yourself, others will define it for you — based on what they are used to seeing from you, or based on their own interests.

And so, many people start over — but repeat the same life, because they have not let go of the old version of themselves.

Here, the wisdom becomes clearer. The tree does not resist the seasons, nor does it try to hold on to what has ended.

When a leaf dies, the tree does not cling to it, nor does it try to bring it back — it lets it fall. Not because it lacks feeling, but because it is in harmony with the cycle of life.

For the tree, falling is not a loss — it is part of renewal.

The idea here is not religious as much as it is practical: Do not carry what has ended. Do not resist what has changed.

The difference between pain and maturity is not in what happens to you — but in how you respond to it.

Clarity does not require cruelty, nor long justification, nor anger. Clarity means seeing the truth as it is — and then acting based on it. Not based on fear of change. Not based on momentary feelings alone.

Feeling matters — but it is not a permanent guide. Ignoring it is not the solution either. True balance is to understand what you feel — and then make your decision based on what you know is right.

In the end, life is not a test of how much you can endure. Nor is it about continuing at any cost. It is about what you accept, what you refuse, and the decisions that preserve your balance.

First, accept reality. Then accept how you feel about it. Only then comes the decision.

Not the easiest decision. Not the one that pleases everyone. But the one that preserves you.

Be like the tree. Let the dead leaves fall.
Because holding on to what has already ended… will never let you create a new beginning.

For further reading

Dostoevsky: The Man Who Returned from the Edge of Death to Write About the Human Hell

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