I’m in my mid-thirties and still haven’t figured my career out. I got my Master’s Degree in something I didn’t like. After a trip out west and two years of soul searching, I found my dream career taking care of plants, only to become diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that prevents me from working full time in the industry. I have had to constantly pivot. It’s destabilizing. Not having a steady income can bring out feelings of utter worthlessness and embarrassment, especially at my age.

I finally figured out my new career path as a yoga instructor. I found a studio that I loved and found out when they were offering their certification program, excited to hear the beginning of January. I shared my excitement with friends and family at holiday parties.

Then life happened.

I sprained my right foot. I can’t drive or put weight on it for a month, then we have to reevaluate from there. I am three weeks in, so the yoga program must be put on hold. My doctor did not approve my program. This puts me back 6-12 months! I was crushed.

What am I going to do? I have a bum foot that can’t withstand anything and I can’t drive, so I sit on the couch all day alone. I simmer in resentment and fury. I have been getting lost in self-pity.

But then I’ll sit on the porch and breathe in the crispy clean, winter air. I sit in silence and look at the bare trees. They don’t look pretty. They don’t provide much shade or protection. They’re not sustaining a ton of wildlife right now.

However – I stare at them in awe.

I know how beautiful and helpful they’ll be in the spring. I know they’ll provide much needed shade for me in the summer heat. I know they’ll put on a magnificent show of oranges and reds in the fall. I know they’ll lay witness to hundred of births of baby birds. Fruit and purpose are right around the corner for the trees. They need time to reset.

So I’ll take the advice of the trees that have outlived my ancestors. I’ll follow their wise advice and practice patience in this time of darkness and uncertainty. I know I’ll bloom again when I’m meant to.