The Fruit That Wanted to Be First

A parable about recognition and truth

Some truths don’t need telling — they seep out on their own.

There once was a Fruit that wanted to be special.

In an orchard full of fruits — some bold, some quiet, some well-traveled — this one longed to stand out. It tried to ripen faster, roll farther, shine brighter. But each time it claimed to be the first, it turned out a Peach or a Plum had already been there — quietly, without the need for fuss.

So the Fruit got creative.

“I’m the first,” it said, “to visit every garden and grow on two different branches.”

“I’m the only one who rolled east and west in the same season.”

The orchard listened politely, as orchards do. Some fruits tilted slightly in the breeze. Others whispered to one another, then turned back toward the sun.

Still, the Fruit polished its skin and practiced its headlines. It stuck on new labels — official-sounding, vaguely impressive — and lined them up like trophies no one had asked for. Even the breeze, once curious, seemed to pass more quickly by.

But something was off.

For all its shine, every time the Fruit was pressed — not hard, just gently — its juice came out sharp. Vinegary. Not quite what it claimed to be.

And while it kept announcing its greatness, the orchard gathered elsewhere. Around the fruits that didn’t say much, but nourished others just by being there.

Eventually, even I stopped listening. Not out of malice — just because I already knew how it would taste.

Moral: You can craft your own label and call it truth. But when the moment comes, the juice tells its own story.

P.S.
If this story stirred something loose — a truth you’ve been holding, a story you haven’t quite found the words for — I offer quiet, collaborative support through my 1:1 work.
You don’t need to have it figured out. You just need to show up with the thread.