When No One Believes in You

A poem for my dreamers for when your dreams need belief

Yesterday, I was feeling pretty darn great. I took Cleo (my dog) on a long walk. It had just snowed, and my footprints and Cleo’s paws were the first to touch the powdery snow. At that moment, I felt like the only one in the world, and then I looked to the trees.

“They are here, you’re not alone” my soul whispered.

I recalled 2 years ago when everything inside me was frozen. I remember walking down the same path, looking to the same trees in awe of how they lay bare and barren each year. They know they must shed their leaves no matter how pretty they are and how much the trees want to cling to them.

I touch the trunks of trees wherever I go. Sometimes, I whisper “thank you” into the bark, and sometimes, “I am so sorry.” Sometimes, I hug them and feel their roots give me strength.

I’m a proud tree-hugger

These trees have witnessed my unbecoming. They’ve tasted my tears. They’ve watched me freeze, and thaw and run and hide and smile and laugh and cry. They lay witness to how much I’ve lost and all that I’ve gained.

I am not alone. Of course, I am not alone. They were here then, they are here now.

This poem is now for you, as a reminder, that you too are not alone.

When No One Believes in You

When no one believes in you,
they nod their heads, they say they do—
but you see it in their fleeting glance,
hear it in their hollow stance.
Their voices shift, their hands retreat,
their minds move on, their words delete.

It would be nice—of course, it would—
to have an army at your side,
or even one, just one who’d say:
"I see you. I believe."
But no one does.

You were always a dreamer,
too much at times, too high, too far,
your dreams shot up to kiss the stars—
but stars don’t always answer back.
And maybe that is why
they never truly see your light.

It would be nice—of course, it would—
for someone’s voice to lift your name,
to whisper, “Go, I’ve got your back.”
But silence is a lonely place,
and here you stand, alone again.

Yet empty you were, until this dream—
this golden thing, this fluttering spark,
a butterfly upon your shoulder,
a whisper older than your name.
It pulled you close, it held you tight,
and something ancient came alive.

This dream is yours, it always was,
buried deep in time-worn dust.
Yours to tend, to breathe, to grow—
even when no one else will know.

And when no one believes in you,
look to the trees.
They saw your breaking, they felt your fall,
they drank the tears you let slip down.
Their roots curled deep beneath your pain,
their branches reached when you could not.

Through seasons turning, skies grown cold,
they held your story in their bones.
They bloomed for you, they bent for you,
they stood bare when you had nothing left to lose.

So when no one believes in you,
look to the trees.
They will hold it,
until the dream comes true.

❤️

Deepshikha