Boundaries 

Long ago, in a small Slavic village surrounded by dense forest, there lived a young woman named Mila. She was known for her kindness — the kind that made people feel warm, seen, and soothed. But her gentleness also made her vulnerable. People came to her with their troubles, their grief, their anger, their needs.
At first, she welcomed everyone. She believed it was her duty to help. But slowly, she began to fade. She slept poorly. She forgot to eat. She felt hollowed out, like a tree whose bark had been stripped away.
One night, exhausted, she wandered into the forest and collapsed beneath an ancient oak. As she slept, she dreamed of a woman cloaked in leaves and shadows — the forest spirit, Leshyana.
Leshyana spoke softly:
“You give until you disappear. This is not generosity. This is forgetting yourself.”
Mila wept. “But if I stop helping, who will I be?”
The spirit touched her forehead.
“You will be someone who still helps — but from fullness, not depletion.”
 When Mila awoke, she found a circle of thorny brambles growing around her — a hedge that hadn’t been there the night before. It was beautiful, wild, and impenetrable.
She tried to step through it, but the thorns pricked her gently, like a warning.
She realised: the hedge was not a prison. It was a boundary.
When she returned to the village, the hedge followed her — invisible to others, but always present. People still came to her, but now, when someone approached with demands or disrespect, the hedge bristled. Mila felt the prickle in her body — a signal to say no.
Some villagers grew angry.
“You’ve changed,” they accused.
“You used to give us everything.”
But others respected her more. They came with gratitude, not expectation. They learned to carry their own burdens.
Over time, Mila grew stronger. Her kindness deepened, but it no longer drained her. The hedge of thorns remained — a living reminder that even the softest hearts need protection.
In some Slavic regions, elders still say:
“A good heart grows its own thorns.”