There’s a skinny Beech tree about 10 feet tall outside my window that I hastily transplanted last night. I dug it up from a shaded patch of woods surrounded by 70 foot mature Maple and Oak trees. It was at my property that’s 15 minutes away from my house.

My husband got Persimmon tree starters from a neighbor and he wanted to plant a grove at the property. I saw the established Beech tree and knew I had to have it in our backyard. We built a house two years ago and there are no mature trees, which hurts my nature-loving heart.

My dad worked in the veneer industry and I spent my life observing trees. It’s my safe place, my home. He taught me that the root ball is the most important part of digging up a tree if you want it to survive. He taught me that you should dig up a new tree with a diameter of at least three to five feet in order to preserve the root ball. Well, the Spring sun was getting ready to set in an hour and my husband wanted to test out his new boomerang that his sister brought home from Australia.

Since the tree cost nothing and we have hundreds of them, I told him to dig it up quickly, so we only dug a one to two foot root ball. My dad was probably rolling over in his grave.

We got on the four wheeler hauling our ten foot tree and threw it in the pond so the roots didn’t dry out until we were ready to leave after his failed attempts at getting the boomerang to circle back.

We rushed home and immediately dug the hole. It was pure clay, which isn’t good. We dug it up from a sandy, loamy soil. Tree roots need air pockets to survive. I pushed it into the ground and smothered it in the clay, watering it with a rooting hormone. So much of me feels like it won’t take, but I will try everything to get it to survive because if I love something enough it will work out, right?

It looks beautiful in the morning light, but the leaves look droopy upon closer inspection. My heart sunk. That image won’t leave me because I’ve felt like that tree—cut off from what was familiar, stunned by the cold air of change, and unsure whether I’d survive the move.

Transplanting, whether of trees or of people, isn’t just a moment. It’s a season. One full of pain, patience, and quiet becoming.

As trees prepare for transplant, change begins long before the move. A tree must be pruned and roots partially loosened. The timing must be right—the soil prepared. You don’t just rip something out of the ground and expect it to thrive.

We’re the same. We know when something no longer fits—a relationship, a job, a version of ourselves—but leaving takes more than awareness. It takes readiness. When we rush, we tear something vital. When we delay too long, we risk shrinking in place. The body knows when it’s time and learning to listen is part of the work.

Even in perfect conditions, a tree experiences shock because of the root disturbance. It stops absorbing nutrients. It drops leaves. From the outside, it looks like it’s dying.

So do we.

When we leave the known behind, even for something better, we often fall apart before we rebuild. There’s grief, guilt, and that whisper of, “Maybe I made a mistake.” But that isn’t failure. It’s a natural part of the process. The old roots have been severed. The new ones aren’t established yet. It’s okay to feel lost in between.

Replanting requires the right soil. Where the tree lands matters. It needs sunlight, good drainage, and protection from wind. Without the right conditions, the transplant won’t take. I made all of those mistakes with my new Beech tree because I had no time or patience. I thought I could wing it on a hope and a prayer.

Humans need nourishing environments, too. Safe people. Quiet mornings. Gentle structure. You don’t owe anyone speed. You don’t need to prove your worth by blooming fast. Healing asks for presence, not performance.

Adaptation happens underground. For a while, nothing seems to happen. The branches stay bare. The growth is invisible. But underground, the roots are reaching, rebuilding, and testing the new soil.

We live this too. We think we’re stuck, but really we’re re-rooting. What looks like stillness is often transformation in disguise.

Eventually, if conditions are right, the tree adapts and thrives in it’s new location. The roots grow deeper. The trunk grows stronger. The stress of the move becomes a memory as the bloom returns.

And maybe, in time, you will feel that too—that this new place was not just an escape, but an arrival. You will feel that you are not just surviving, but thriving and that you’re not who you were before the transplant happened.

If you’re in a season of uprooting, know this: there is nothing wrong with you. This discomfort is not a mistake. It’s your system adjusting. Keep resting. Keep reaching. Let the roots take hold.

The bloom will come.