The Bear

Some never let themselves grow. It can be too uncomfortable

There was, and there was not, a Bear who wandered the desert, crossing dunes and dry riverbeds in quiet pursuit of something he had stopped naming. One day, he came upon a Raven balancing on a tightrope stretched between two ancient stones.

“Raven,” he called, both curious and concerned, “Do you need help? If you fall, I can catch you. My back is strong.”

The Raven tore her gaze from the horizon, wobbled slightly, then refocused. “A wandering desert Bear! What brings you this far from forests and snowfields? There is little here for you—no shade, no berries, no prey.”

“I could ask the same of you,” the Bear replied. “Why not fly?”

“Because I wish to cross as the squirrels do,” she said. “They move with such balance and ease. It’s a skill worth mastering. I’ve practiced for weeks. If I succeed, I can teach other birds.”

The Bear tilted his head. Is she clever, or just lost in her own proving? he wondered. He chose a different question instead.

“Where did you come from?”

“I was raised in a forest not far from the Kingdom of Trade.”

“And why did you leave?”

She stretched her wings slightly to steady herself. “I outgrew the forest and sought the heart of the Kingdom of Trade. I believed I could build something there. For a time, I did. But the deeper I went, the less I found—power held tightly, questions discouraged, voices filtered by hierarchy. It no longer reflected what I valued.”

The Bear studied her. “And this place—the rope, the community—how is it different? It is still part of the Kingdom.”

“It was meant to be,” she said. “The Grey Squirrel promised growth, balance, purpose. He’s clever and charming, but he treats me differently. When I questioned him, he spoke of plans for me—always vague, always postponed. Now the others watch me with wary eyes, as if my presence alone is disruptive.”

The Bear’s expression shifted. “And that’s not what you knew in the city, the heart of the Kingdom?”

“No,” she said, shifting her weight to take another careful step. “There, I earned respect and left on my own terms. I chose to leave. Not to escape—but to grow.”

The Bear considered this. “And yet here you are again—trying to prove something to those who do not seem willing to receive it. Doesn’t that hold you back?”

She was quiet. Then, slowly: “Perhaps. Some would see it that way.” Her gaze narrowed as she looked toward the horizon. “But something else is happening, too. I think the Grey Squirrel is extending the rope at night. It feels longer each morning.”

The Bear’s ears twitched. He understood the type—those who disguise control as challenge, who lengthen the test each time you're close to finishing it.

He had met them before. He had learned not to wait for their permission.

“This isn’t your test to pass,” he said. “And I worry there is nothing here worth proving. You deserve to build in a place that feeds your spirit, not one that tests your loyalty.”

She looked down, the tightrope suddenly less stable than it had seemed. The Bear’s words weren’t new—but something in the way he said them made her realize she’d already known.

“You need to heal. Knowing your worth is essential,” he added. “But knowing where growth is no longer possible—that’s wisdom, too.”

She was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “What am I healing from?”

The Bear met her gaze.

“From the belief that your value depends on convincing others of it. From staying too long in places that diminish you. From forgetting how it feels to soar.”

The Raven turned her eyes to the horizon and closed them.

She remembered the thrill of wind on her wings. The tightrope beneath her felt suddenly thin, strained, like a story she no longer believed in – uncomfortable.

There were still opportunities in the Kingdom. There were still forests. She could not change the Grey Squirrel. But she could choose what stories she stayed inside.

She opened her wings.

And she flew.

The Bear watched her disappear into the sky.

Clever or lost? he wondered. Neither. She is growing. She is moving forward. And some never let themselves do that. It can be too uncomfortable.

With a quiet nod to the empty rope, the Bear turned and continued on his way.

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.