I was like a cactus in the desert that learned to live in a harsh environment of scourging hot days and frost biting nights. I did what I could with what little water I had and managed to adapt quite well through the rainless years to the point that water was no longer of any concern to me. A thousand needles covered my surface and I grew hollow on the inside. Even in such a harsh environment I did quite well – nobody likes needles and I, like other cacti, didn’t like anybody. Then, something happened – I was uprooted, brought out of the desert, and planted in a forest. As you may have noticed, there isn’t really anything beautiful about a cactus; a hard dry surface and a thousand needles that say “you are not welcome” and its hollow core that says “there’s nothing more to me than what you see on the surface.” This environment is much different than the desert. There is an abundance of water, an abundance of life, and the temperature stays cool. The plants here are bare and vulnerable and there seems to be little danger, but I am in shock. I’m having trouble rooting myself in this place and I am slowly dying. Naturally, when a plant is in shock from being relocated, it becomes very vulnerable, its defenses weaken, it’s leaves wilt, and its main focus is becomes being rooted once again. From some reason, I cannot let go of my needles. Everything in this environment goes against my nature. One does not simply take a plant out of the forest and plant it in the desert, nor vice versa. For the first time, I am truly vulnerable. Though I remain covered in needles, I am not rooted in anything. I know I must change or slowly die and there is only one way. A needle a day falls off as I try to let go, and as the weeks go by, I try to keep myself from growing them back.