the lamb beneath the fig tree

flowering into my 20s

Author

Ayra
June 26, 2025

hi!

have you read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath? i haven’t read it, not yet. it rests quietly on my shelf, the spine still uncreased, the pages untouched.

yet somehow, via different mediums, i understand the fig tree analogy.

i understand it because i live it every day.

have you read a bitter brown’s sweet grief?? i have… because i wrote it.

i wrote most of it before i entered my 20s, and i finished it a month after starting this new decade.

it was an incredibly beautiful experience..
to ink the different colors of grief I wore, to explore the way it intersected with my identity, and to find meaning in the emotions that once threatened to undo me.

i truly believed the poetry would end when the book came out.
that I had said all I needed to say.

and yet, somehow, every day,
I still discover the lamb beneath the fig tree.

and that is, perhaps, how i blossom into my 20s every day.

the lamb beneath the fig tree

behind every fruit lies intention. you may have heard of the fig tree analogy. each sprouted fig sweetens into a different life you wish to live.

a bite into this fig & i reflect on what my life would be as a writer.

a bite into another, and i see myself flourishing as a scientist.

i reach for the one that had sweetened into a life of politics.

the one furthest away from me emanates motherhood.

there are, maybe, a 100 more. baker. animal rescuer. doctor. lawyer. entrepreneur. conservationist. actress. photographer. filmmaker. all are almost within reach.

then, i see the other fig tree. one that holds fruits not ripe yet but slowly sweetening. i see everything i am but wish to be better at. being a daughter. a sister. a partner. a friend. a role model. a mentor.

i am all and i am a lamb.

my face always morphs to match the lamb i am meant to be

a baby, and the gift of prophecy

a daughter weighs the lamb on her head

a son wages a war against the lamb

i am not a son, and i am not a poet. i am simply desperate

i am not an individual. i am simply tomorrow's meat

my face is the occupation of sacrifice.

a daughter lamb and 21 mouths of spoken word. this is what i become.

there is a mouth that holds a cigarette and a mouth that cries. there is a mouth that writes poetry and a mouth that fibs.

i am not an individual i am simply tomorrow's meat

(a baby is the gift of prophecy)

my face is the occupation of sacrifice. what is poetry if not a piece of that? who am i if not a prophecy?

this is a piece i scribbled down a few days ago.

5 minutes & all of my womanhood, so far, was inked.

there’s a lot i can say about how entering my 20s has opened me up to more vulnerability and understanding. there’s the fig of being an immigrant born to immigrant parents. the fig of meeting societal standards. a bigger fig that speaks of freedom. and the tiniest fig where i do it all.

lamb? the face of sacrifice?

how many fruits can i consume?

i’ve been thinking about how sacrifice sneaks into womanhood, poetry, faith, even ambition. the lamb isn’t always led, sometimes it walks willingly. and in between the fruits i do choose and those i let fall, i’m beginning to ask not just who i could become,

but what i’ve already become.

this isn’t to say sacrifice is inherently bad. sometimes it’s beautiful, meaningful, even necessary. but when it becomes your default, when your identity is shaped more by what you’re giving up than by what you’re growing into, it gets harder to feel whole.

and!!! i know i’m not alone in this. a lot of us are carrying silent pressure, to be successful, to be stable, to be remarkable, to be “on track.” and at the same time, we’re still learning how to grieve the parts of ourselves we’ve outgrown.

it’s confusing, sometimes contradictory. and it’s exhausting pretending like it’s not.

what’s helped me is naming it, saying it out loud. sharing the fact that, yes, i’m ambitious. but i’m also tired. i’m hopeful, but i’m still scared. i’m trying to choose, but i also want to be chosen… by the life that feels most like me.

i think a lot of us are trying to figure out how to be soft without being overlooked. how to be intentional without being rushed. how to want things deeply without constantly feeling like we’re behind.

and maybe we don’t figure it out all at once.

maybe we don’t need to.

maybe it’s okay if we’re still standing beneath the tree, deciding.

until next time,

ayra

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