Our Treehouse Reaches the Library

Our Treehouse Reaches the Library

Today, I finally submitted Our Treehouse to the local library’s community collection. It’s hard to describe how deeply moving this moment feels. Our book will now be part of the shelves, where someone might discover it, hold it in their hands, and feel inspired to create a story of their own.

Looking back, our first meeting was humble and simple. Last year, we gathered with one purpose—to enjoy writing our own stories. Once a month, we met to read what we had written, to share the illustrations we had drawn, and to laugh and reflect together. Slowly, piece by piece, we built something—like a real treehouse, but made of stories, art, and friendship.

Next week, we will hold a small celebration at the library café. It reminds me of the ending of our book, when Sarah, Jack, and their friends finish building their treehouse and sit inside, sharing sodas and snacks in joy. Though our treehouse cannot be seen with the eyes, it stands firmly in our hearts—warm, bright, and strong.

But this treehouse was never just ours. Along the way, we met people who supported our project with genuine warmth. Among them, I want to express my deepest gratitude to Miss Rebecca, whose kindness and professionalism guided us through every step. She embodies the spirit of community and the love of art and literature. Meeting her has truly been a blessing.

And to my beloved Our Treehouse members--Emilia, Freya, and Becca—I want to say thank you. Each of us was busy with work and motherhood, constantly pulled in a dozen directions. Yet, we kept meeting, month after month, no matter how tired we were. When it felt like there was no room left for dreaming, we still showed up—and that was how the dream became real.

At times, we shared a quiet fear: that our children might grow up without ever seeing a truly handmade story. In a future where books and pictures could all be generated by artificial intelligence, would they forget what it feels like to read something made by human hands? That thought chilled us. So we decided—we would write and draw ourselves, however imperfectly, and show our children that stories made by love still matter.

Our children watched us create. They saw their mothers writing, drawing, revising, and cheering one another on. Maybe that’s why they, too, began to love storytelling. They started inventing their own characters, writing their own tales, drawing their own little worlds. Watching that, I became even more convinced of the power of storytelling—it connects people, bridges generations, and heals hearts.

This project will not end with one book. Our treehouse will keep growing through second and third volumes, and through the creative voices of new contributors. I hope more groups like ours will form in neighborhoods everywhere—people who love stories, art, and the shared act of making something beautiful together.

Today, however, another message arrived. It was from a gallery where I have exhibited my paintings before—a place once known for full audiences and strong sales. This year, only one painting sold. The economy is slow; people hesitate to open their wallets. Artists and writers alike are struggling. But I believe this is precisely when we must hold onto hope and continue creating warmth in the world.
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Our Treehouse is not just a book. It is a symbol of time shared, hearts connected, and courage sustained. And so today, quietly but with deep pride, I celebrate this simple truth: our treehouse has finally reached the library.

Through this project, I learned the true power of recording. Even the smallest moments of everyday life can become stories when written down, and those stories can, in turn, become someone’s comfort. If something we created with our own hands can gently warm another person’s day, then that, I believe, is the greatest reward of creation.

We will continue to write new stories. As the seasons change, new ideas will bloom, and new books will be born. I sometimes imagine a small bookshelf in the library labeled “Moms’ Playground Collection,” filled with the storybooks created by mothers like us. That shelf would not simply represent publication—it would stand as a testament to love, courage, and connection.
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When that day comes, I want to say this: “What we made was not just a book. We left a trace of warmth in the world.”