I was born in the trees. Not literally, I slipped screaming into this world in a hospital in Brainerd, Minnesota, but when I reflect on my childhood I see towering pines, birch, and poplars as far as the eye could see (though, given how short I am, that’s not a tall order. Pun intended).

Our little house–which my dad eventually built into a bigger hours–was surrounded by woods. We shared our yard with deer, black bears, and a whole lot of chipmunks. We fell asleep to hooting and howls, and to the wind greeting branches all night long.

I know it was not idyllic, I was just young. But when we packed up and left when I was eight, I felt truly uprooted, like I was leaving an integral part of my family behind (unfortunately that part wasn’t my brother, who my parents said had to come with us).

We moved to my grandparents’ farm, surrounded by corn instead of trees, and nothing to block out the highway. It was peaceful in a different way, but I never got over leaving the bears behind.

Even now I often wander off paths and slip under branches into the woods when I can. When I do, I feel like I’m dunking myself under water. Everything changes with a barrier of branches.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some luminescent elf who wanders through the woods with a trail of chipmunks behind me, trees embracing me like old friends and feet floating above the forest floor. I trip on roots and get slapped in the face with sticks. Anything fuzzy sees me and books it in the opposite direction. I get attacked by mosquitoes and scream bloody murder if I see a tick or a snake. It is not always an ethereal relationship. But it is accepting and real and lifelong.

For some people, the ocean is their trees, or skyscrapers, or deserts, or pop up cupcake shops. It doesn’t matter. As long as stepping over the barrier into that space makes you think, “that’s right, this is me. I’d forgotten until now.”