Inspired by a fishing trip on a trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains where I found this leaf on a quiet trail—hollowed, delicate, and yet lit from within. The whole tree was like this. Not decaying—transforming. A reminder: what time strips away, meaning often uncovers. I found myself holding this leaf to the light, suddenly understanding what it means to be stripped down to what’s essential. Years ago, I thought if I had a daughter, I would name her Maya (माया)—which in Sanskrit means both “illusion” and “divine creative power.” I don’t have that Maya in my life yet, but here she is in my story.
Maya found the leaf on the morning she decided to quit her job.
She hadn’t planned it that way. The resignation letter sat in her drafts folder, unsent, while she took what was supposed to be a quick walk to clear her head. But there it was—a single leaf caught between her fingers as she brushed past a bare tree, translucent and delicate, like nature’s own stained glass.
She held it up to the light filtering through the canopy and stopped walking entirely.
“You’re going to be late,” her phone buzzed. A text from her assistant about the 9 AM meeting where she was supposed to present the quarterly projections that proved, once again, that she was succeeding at a life that felt increasingly hollow.
Maya stared at the leaf. Every vein was visible, the entire structure laid bare, and yet it was the most beautiful thing she’d seen in months. More beautiful than her corner office view. More beautiful than her award sitting on the shelf. More beautiful than any of the substantial things she’d accumulated to prove she was someone worth knowing.
“I’m transparent,” she whispered to no one, then immediately felt foolish. But the thought stuck.
At the office, Maya sat through the meeting watching her colleagues present solid charts and concrete plans while she held the leaf carefully in her palm under the conference table. She found herself studying faces instead of spreadsheets, noticing the way Tom’s confidence flickered when he talked about next quarter, how Sarah’s laugh sounded just a little too bright.
Everyone looked so substantial, so certain. But Maya was starting to see the spaces between their words, the light passing through their carefully constructed professional selves.
“Maya?” Her boss was looking at her expectantly. “The Southeast numbers?”
She opened her mouth to deliver the prepared presentation, but what came out instead was: “I think we’re all pretending to know what we’re doing.”
The room went quiet.
“I mean,” Maya continued, surprised by her own voice, “we’re presenting these projections like they’re facts, but they’re really just educated guesses about a future we can’t control. We’re all just… hoping.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably. Sarah stopped taking notes. Maya’s boss raised an eyebrow.
But in that moment of absolute transparency, Maya felt something she hadn’t experienced in years: relief.
After the meeting (which ended awkwardly, with promises to “revisit the numbers”), Maya found herself in the parking garage, still holding the leaf. Her phone was buzzing with messages she didn’t want to read.
That’s when she saw David from accounting, sitting on a concrete barrier, crying.
Six months ago, Maya would have pretended not to notice and hurried to her car. But something about the morning’s strange clarity made her stop.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”
David looked up, embarrassed, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Maya. I’m sorry, I’m just… my dad’s in the hospital and I can’t afford to take time off, and I feel like I’m failing at everything.”
Maya sat beside him on the cold concrete. “Can I show you something?”
She held up the leaf, catching the fluorescent light from above. “I found this this morning. It’s lost everything—all its green, all its solid parts. But look how beautiful it is.”
David stared at the translucent leaf. “It looks like light could shine right through it.”
“Exactly,” Maya said. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all supposed to become see-through eventually.”
They sat in comfortable silence, two people who had accidentally let their guards down in a parking garage at 10:47 AM on a Tuesday.
Maya sent the resignation email that afternoon.
Not because of the meeting, or the leaf, or even David’s tears. But because she realized she’d been building herself into something solid and impressive when what she actually wanted was to become permeable—to let life’s light pass through her instead of bouncing off her carefully constructed surface.
Her boss called within an hour. “Maya, let’s talk about this. You’re one of our most substantial contributors.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Maya said, looking at the leaf she’d taped to her window. “I don’t want to be substantial anymore. I want to be essential.”
She hung up before he could respond.
Six months later, Maya was teaching art therapy to kids at the community center, making a third of her previous salary and feeling more like herself than she had in years.
She kept the leaf pressed in a book on her desk—not as a memento, but as a reminder. Sometimes the children would ask about it, and she’d hold it up to the window, watching their eyes widen as the light passed through.
“It’s just a leaf,” one boy said, unimpressed.
“Look closer,” Maya said. “What do you see?”
“Everything,” a little girl whispered, reaching toward the light. “I can see everything.”
Maya smiled. “That’s what happens when you stop trying to be solid. The light shows you what was always there.”
She placed the leaf carefully back between the pages, knowing that somewhere, someone else was finding their own translucent moment, their own invitation to become beautifully, courageously see-through.
The essence of who they’d always been, finally visible in the light.
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