Romy pulled her old, mud-splashed boots from the basket by the back door, a familiar scent of damp earth and hay clinging to them. The farm had always been her sanctuary, a place of sun-drenched summers and quiet solace. As a child, she’d willingly get lost there each year, shedding the small worries of school and friends.

Now, though, bigger, heavier worries had driven her back, seeking the never-failing solace that refreshed her soul.

She felt adrift, inconsequential. Scrolling through social media was a daily self-inflicted wound, each perfect post a testament to a life she hadn’t achieved. Friends with thriving careers, beautiful homes, families, effortless confidence – Romy saw herself as a pale imitation, a collection of half-starts and quiet anxieties.

“If only I had a fraction of their success,” she’d whispered to her reflection that morning, “then I’d truly be happy.”

Her grandfather, a man carved from oak and sunshine, simply hugged her tight when she arrived, his eyes holding a depth of understanding that needed no words. He’d just nodded towards the fields, letting the farm work its magic.

Romy wandered towards the goat pen, her lips forming a tentative smile as she spotted them. A new litter of baby goats, all gangly legs and boundless energy, were gallivanting across the paddock. They playfully butted heads, hopped their way up a small mound only to tumble down in a heap, and chased each other with uncoordinated glee.

Romy soon found herself laughing out loud. Their sheer joy was infectious, a momentary balm for her soul.

But just as quickly as the joy arrived, it vanished. A wave of profound sadness, cold and suffocating, engulfed her. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a sudden, aching emptiness.

The simple, pure happiness felt out of place. What was the point of a fleeting smile when the deep ache always returned? The farm’s usual comfort felt like a mockery of her internal state.

Without thinking, she stumbled away from the pen, seeking refuge from the overwhelming emotion. She found herself in the cool, dim quiet of the old grange, the scent of hay and dust a familiar comfort. But the comfort couldn’t hold back the tide. Her shoulders began to shake, and then the sobs came, uncontrolled and raw, echoing softly in the cavernous space.

A warm, wet nose nudged her hand. Sunny, her grandfather’s golden retriever, had followed her. He didn’t bark; he simply whimpered, a soft, empathetic sound that seemed to say, “It hurts me to see you so sad.”

He pressed his golden head against her side, a solid, comforting weight. Romy buried her face in his fur, clutching him, letting the dam break completely.

She stayed there for a long time, just breathing with Sunny beside her, the sobs slowly subsiding into quiet sniffles.

When she finally looked up, blinking back the last of her tears, she found herself in the shade of the old apple tree, the grange now seemingly behind her. A forgotten book lay open on her lap. Beside her, Sunny lay stretched out, his tail thumping a slow, steady rhythm against the grass. Sunny was more than just a pet; he was a constant, warm presence, a living embodiment of the farm’s soothing properties.

Suddenly, a hoot echoed from the branches above. A large, formidable owl, with eyes like ancient marbles, swiveled his head to peer down at her. “Hmph,” the owl announced, his voice surprisingly clear, deep, and accented with a scholarly air. “Another one equating external validation with internal contentment. A common fallacy, I assure you.”

Romy nearly jumped out of her skin. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then stared at the owl. “Did… did you just talk?”

“Indeed,” the owl replied, ruffling his feathers. “Professor Hoot, at your service. And you, Romy, I presume are currently wrestling with the universal delusion that success breeds happiness. I’ve observed many such cases from afar. Take, for instance, the famous author whose books line shelves worldwide, the one on your lap included – a recluse, utterly miserable. Or the celebrated businesswoman whose ambition devoured her family. Even those who genuinely achieve their dreams without burning bridges often find themselves staring into the same abyss of self-doubt they thought success would fill.”

Professor Hoot paused, as if expecting applause. “External things, my dear, are mere decorations. True contentment, if it exists, blossoms from within.”

Romy, still reeling from the shock of a talking owl, scoffed. “I don’t know… There are so many things expected of us… of me. I know I’d be happy if I just had some of these things.”

A soft whimper drew her attention. Sunny had lifted his head. And then, to Romy’s utter astonishment, Sunny spoke. His voice was warm, like sunlight filtering through leaves, full of an understanding that went straight to her heart.

“Romy,” Sunny began, a quiet sorrow in his tone, “you talk about what you don’t have, what you haven’t achieved. But I know you. I sense the moments that chipped away at you, the times you learned to doubt your own worth. I know you struggle, every single day, trying to be someone else when you’re already wonderful.”

Sunny nudged her hand gently with his wet nose, a soft, mournful sound escaping him. “You wish for an unshakable self-belief, to stand tall and confident. But instead, you had to contend with a second-guessing self all your life. I know. I feel it within you.”

Romy stared at Sunny, then at the owl, her amazement dissolving into a fresh wave of tears. Not tears of self-pity, but of raw, aching recognition. Sunny’s words were describing her to a tee. The hidden scars she carried, the silent battles she fought, the very roots of her feeling “inconsequential.” He knew the quiet truth of her heart.

Professor Hoot cleared his throat. “Indeed. Futhermore, you speak of what you lack, Romy, but fail to see what you inherently possess. Your friends, for instance, often seek you out for your sensitive ear and your knack for always uplifting them, even when you are struggling yourself. You are a beacon of quiet love and insights because you are a keen observer of human nature. Your mind is smart, yes, but your strength truly lies in having your heart on your sleeve, in feeling deeply.”

“Yes,” Sunny added, his voice soft, “you hide your own tears away so others don’t have to carry your burdens. That’s a brave and gentle thing, Romy.”

Romy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, a fresh wave of frustration mingling with the lingering pain. “I know, I know all that,” she retorted, her voice thick. “But it’s hard. It doesn’t help me that I always want to help everyone, but it seems I end up worse off than everyone as a result.”

Professor Hoot shifted on his branch, his gaze steady. “Imagine for a moment, Romy, if you were the opposite. If you were callous, uncaring of your friends’ needs. If you possessed that unyielding self-belief you crave, but it came at the cost of your empathy. If your heart was guarded, never on your sleeve. Would you still be the Romy who inspires quiet trust in those around you? Would you still draw people into your gentle orbit?”

Sunny nuzzled her hand again. “You wouldn’t be you, Romy. And we love this Romy.”

Professor Hoot nodded. “Precisely. We don’t always end up where or the way we want. Life is hard for everyone, in one way or another, with burdens both seen and unseen. But what truly matters, what holds value, is who we are beneath the surface, at heart, and how we connect. And be assured, Romy, we love our Romy. And we need her. The people around her do too. Certainly, the ones that matter.”

Then Romy woke up. She had fallen asleep in the grange… This was all a dream. But what a dream! It felt so real… And it made so much sense. 

She stood up, ready to face the world again. The farm had worked its magic once again, in a very unusual way this time.

As she walked towards the house, Sunny came out from behind a pile of hay, and followed her, his tail wagging enthusiastically. And on top of that hay, Professor Hoot swiveled his head in a way that seemed to say, “Yes! She’s back!”