I found this river-stone tucked beneath the roots of a willow, its surface polished so smooth that the summer moonlight

It sits heavy in my palm, cool despite the humid evening air of the Whisperwood. Long ago, this was a jagged shard of granite, sharp enough to cut the current, yet centuries of patient tumbling have worn away its defenses until only this quiet, rounded heart remains. I recall a young hawk who once complained that his feathers were too ruffled by the gale; he did not yet understand that the wind is merely the sculptor's hand, and we are the clay. We spend so much of our lives fearing the friction that wears us down, forgetting that it is the very thing that makes us shine.
Do not be discouraged by the storms that chip away at your pride or the slow grind of the years. Your rough edges are not flaws, but rather the parts of you that have yet to meet the river. Trust in the movement of the water, for it knows exactly what to leave behind.