The Forest and the Falling
This is the fourth poem in the All the Ways I Love You series—one poem a day as we count down to my husband’s birthday. Today’s is for the trails, the waterfalls, the jellyfish limbs, and the forest that taught us how to move through the world together.
We hiked British Columbia like it was ours.
Like we had a key to something sacred—
forests soaked in light,
rivers laughing over rocks,
the sound of our feet
and the occasional wheeze
from a body that never did learn grace.
The first time,
I punched myself in the face.
By accident,
which is somehow worse.
A full swing—fist to nose—
a bloom of blood,
a flash of tears,
and the hot shame
of crying in nature’s cathedral.
You didn’t laugh.
Not in the way I feared.
You just said,
“Well, at least you warned me.”
And I had.
I always do.
See, my body is not one thing.
It’s a jellyfish—
a group project of limbs and intention,
none of them on speaking terms.
Coordination is a rumour.
Balance is theoretical.
But still,
you hike beside me like I’m made of mountains.
Lynn Valley Canyon became our church.
Every weekend—
sunlight dripping through the canopy,
ferns brushing our legs,
waterfalls catching fire in the light.
We didn’t need money.
We had moss and motion.
We had Norvan Falls
and that photo of you,
shirtless and chiseled,
eyes lit like you’d swallowed the sun.
We were underpaid,
but overfilled—
with joy,
with breath,
with everything green and possible.
The trees knew our names.
The water sang in our frequency.
We were small,
but part of something vast.
Connected to each other,
to the trail,
to the world breathing all around us.
I never felt connected to myself—
not really.
My legs tangle,
my mind wanders,
my elbows riot.
But with you,
I was part of a rhythm.
I could bleed and cry
and still be radiant,
still be loved.
You didn’t just walk with me—
you matched my pace,
even when I didn’t know where I was going.
Even when my own body didn’t.
Together,
we built a wilderness of memory.
And somehow,
even tripping through it,
I always felt
like I belonged.
