I found something in my journal this week that stopped me.
It was from two years ago.
Just notes from a walk.
At the time, I thought I was simply noticing things.
But reading it now…
I wasn’t observing trees.
I was describing a season I hadn’t lived through yet.
I had written about cedar trees—leaning, some fallen.
Their roots were shallow.
Mostly sitting in rocky soil.
They couldn’t hold.
I noticed the twisted ones too.
Trees shaped by vines that had once constricted them—
leaving them misshapen, unusual…
but still alive.
And then there was one tree that stood out from the rest.
Huge. Strong. Tall.
Its lower branches were dead—gone.
It no longer needed what had once been part of it.
Later in the same entry, I wrote about seedlings along the creek bank.
So small. So fragile.
I remember asking:
Which ones will survive?
At the bottom of the page, I wrote:
“Roots and trunks and branches… now to research and make the connections.”
What I didn’t know then…
was that I was about to be uprooted.
That I would become the seedling.
That I would have to learn—slowly, and not always gently—
what it means to grow roots instead of reaching for height.
I’ve learned a lot about roots since then.
Roots anchor.
They absorb what the tree needs to survive.
They store reserves—especially in winter—
so that when the season changes, growth can come back again.
And maybe most importantly…
roots grow deeper when they have to.
Not when everything is easy.
But when the surface isn’t enough.
Looking back now, I can see it more clearly.
The seasons where I didn’t feel steady.
The ways I adapted under pressure.
The parts of me that shaped themselves around things that were never meant to stay.
And the quiet, necessary loss of things that once served a purpose…
but didn’t belong in the life I was growing into.
Around that same time, I had a realization while I was praying.
This land… this life…
felt like my Isaac.
Something I loved deeply.
Something I thought I might be asked to lay down.
And what I’ve learned since then is this:
I wasn’t being asked to lose it.
I was being asked to be willing.
There’s a difference.
Recently, I heard a branch crack and fall while I was outside.
It startled me at first.
But almost immediately, I thought—
this is what trees do.
They shed what they no longer need.
Not because they’re dying.
Because they’re growing.
I used to think growth looked like becoming something bigger.
Stronger. More established.
Now I see it differently.
Growth looks like letting go.
Like staying when it’s slow.
Like trusting what’s happening underground.
Two years ago, I wrote a question to myself:
“That isn’t a natural progression… now is it?”
What I didn’t understand then…
is that I wasn’t questioning nature.
I was questioning the pace of my own growth.
And now I know—
it is natural.
Just slower, deeper, and less visible than I wanted it to be.
Growth doesn’t happen in a straight line upward.
It happens in the unseen places.
In the breaking.
In the waiting.
In the quiet work of becoming rooted enough to hold what comes next.
I don’t know exactly what I’m becoming yet.
But I trust it more now.
Pay attention.
Be kind.
Tell the truth.
Even when you don’t yet understand what you’re seeing.
Leah McCracken 