Dear Carolynn

Dear Carolynn,

A few years ago, when I found myself feeling small and unseen, I wrote this in my journal—a pep talk to me. It has taken on greater meaning since the recent death of my little brother, and the ongoing years of helping to care for my mother who is living with dementia.

It’s a story about a gate post, a storm, and where we find our worth.

Author: Mark Bolton. Images: AI Generated Chat GPT

Once upon a time, in a quiet little neighbourhood, there stood a humble gate post named Post. He had been rooted in that spot for as long as he could remember, holding the gate steady day after day. His duty was simple but vital: to keep the gate secure for Poppy and her two little dogs. Without him, the gate would collapse. Post took quiet pride in this, even if no one ever seemed to notice.

But Post often felt invisible. In Poppy’s front yard stood a grand, towering column named Roman—tall, polished, crowned with an elegant light that glowed at dusk. Poppy would admire him, calling him “majestic” and “strong,” while barely glancing at Post.

Post wasn’t tall. He wasn’t decorative. He was sturdy, practical, loyal, and unbreakable. Yet he ached for Poppy to see the strength that lived in his steadfastness. Every time she drove past, her only thought was not to let him scrape the car. He was an object of caution, not care.

Then came the great summer tempest.

The wind howled, and rain fell in furious sheets. Roman, for all his height and beauty, was hollow inside. The storm exposed it—his light shattered, his form groaned, and with a sound like falling history, he collapsed into ruin. Poppy rushed out, crying, but it was too late.

But Post?
Post stood.

The storm battered him. Debris struck him. The wind tried with all its might to uproot him—but he did not bend. He did not break. He held the gate fast, protecting what was behind it. He endured, because he had learned that his worth was putting himself second.

When dawn came, Roman lay in pieces. Post was bruised, worn, but unyielding.

Poppy stared at Post with something like resentment. He had survived what her Roman could not. Soon, Roman was replaced by Roman II. And Post told himself that no storm, no bitter look, would ever weaken his loyalty.

Yet, Poppy’s resentment did something unexpected. It woke him.

Over the following months, Post realised he had made the same error Poppy had: he had measured his own value through eyes that could not see him. He had believed that to be loyal meant to disappear. But standing through that storm hadn’t been about her—it had been about what he was made of. His strength was his own. His worth did not require a witness.

He didn’t need to be admired to matter. He needed to know he mattered, even if he was the only one who knew it.

Years turned. The climate grew harsher. Romans came and fell—II, III, IV—each replaced after storms and floods, until the eleventh finally fell and was not replaced.

Poppy moved away in time.But Post remained.

And one day, a new family arrived—Danni, her two daughters, and their three bounding dogs. They saw Post not as an obstacle, but as part of the home. They touched his weathered wood with appreciation. They hung a wreath on him in December. They leaned on him sometimes, watching the sunset.

Now, Post stands. Not for applause, not for glory, but rooted in something deeper: the knowledge that his strength belongs to him. It would take a bulldozer to uproot what he now holds inside.

The storms still come. People may still overlook us. But there is a love that grows from within—a quiet, unshakable respect for our own endurance. It doesn’t make us less loyal to others. It makes our loyalty true, because it is given freely, not borrowed from our own emptiness.

We are not defined by how others see us, but by what we learn to see in ourselves. Sometimes, it takes a storm, and a fall of something beautiful and hollow, to show us how solid we really are.