Tag: mental-health

The Russian Immigrant Desperate For Help

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It was a gorgeous summer morning in 2024 and I was working at my dream job. I had my headphones in and listened to bird songs and nature tracks. I was in my own floral explosion world watering and pruning. I thought I heard a man yelling, so I took my ear buds out and located the anger.

The man was screaming, quite scarily, into a cell phone. He had papers in his hand. I purposely moved away from him because his energy was on fire. He went inside the store and I breathed a sigh of relief. In full transparency, I got scared. America is storing some of the darkest energy right now and you never know what people are capable of when their anger is spilling over into their words and actions.

10 minutes later he comes back out and looks around like he’s trying to find something. He locks eyes with me and starts hoofing it towards me. I ripped my earbuds out and felt fear, but remained calm. He started punching things in on his phone as I stared at him quizzically. Then his phone started spitting out things in English and he pushed it into my hand. I noticed it was a translator app and the languages were Russian and English.

We had a long back and forth conversation. He told me that he just arrived in America and has to be at a factory job tonight at 9pm with printed paperwork. I knew the place I worked had copiers, so I brought him back in with me. Surely my co-workers would oblige? This man is trying to get a fair job and all we have to do is print one piece of paper for him.

False. They were jerks. I was speechless! I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t do it and they kept spouting off corporate policy. I was enraged! I told him to follow me back outside by the flowers. I told him he needed to get to a public library or Staples where he get copies made because that’s how America is. However – he didn’t have a car and these places are miles away.

He was getting frustrated and I was feeling terrible for him. He kept pointing out gas station, fast food chains, and grocery stores that enveloped us.

“Sister, why not these places? I don’t have a car and I can’t be late to my first day!!”

Each time he addressed me he said, “Sister.” I’m sure that’s a cultural thing, but it made my heart grow exponentially for him. I wanted nothing more than to do all of it for him. I can’t imagine being an immigrant in a foreign country and not understanding their rules and regulations.

I tried my hardest to push him to get to a library or print center, but I don’t think he had any way of getting there on time. He said he was sure Taco Bell would print it for him, which I knew they wouldn’t. I told him,

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I’m glad you’re here. But America is greedy. Even for one piece of paper, they want you to pay for it. I wish it wasn’t this way, but it is. I know it’s not kind or helpful, but my hands are tied.”

I could tell my answer infuriated him as he shoved his phone in his pocket. It was clear he was done talking to me. I felt disheartened. Then out of no where he said, “Thank you, sister,” and gave me a tight hug. He spoke something in his mother tongue that seemed kind and he patted his heart.

I cried as he walked away and texted my husband and sisters. I told them how thankful I was for our blessings and asked for them to pray for him. I always wonder if he ever found kindness and was able to start his job? I pray he has found safety in America. Remember to always be kind.

The Sikh I Knew In Another Life

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I worked as a nanny while I was going through college. There was a gorgeous park close to their house that I would drive my charges to. It had a massive, new playground and 40 acres of nature trails that led to a pond. We spent many days there because it was never busy and always had tons to do.

On this particular day, it was only me and one of the boys. No one else was there. We played on the playground for a while, then took off for the trails. It was nice only having one child to look after instead of four. I gave the child more breathing room to use his imagination and watched him from a distance, smiling. The three year old was chasing geese and it was as hilarious as it was heartwarming.

I noticed an elder in traditional Sikh gear sitting about 20 yards away on a bench. He was watching us. Normally, my spidey senses would alert for danger when a man watches us, but there was something so calming about him. He saw me look in his direction and started waving his hands, instructing me to come over. My charge was distracted at a safe distance, the man seemed friendly, so I approached.

The closer I got the harder he patted the bench, instructing me to sit down. I did. But I couldn’t understand him. We didn’t speak the language. I felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to do. He was very adamant on telling me the same thing over and over. It felt important and it felt personal to me. I apologized and said, “I’m so sorry! I only speak English. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He smiled so big and fell silent. He sweetly grabbed my right hand and cupped it in both of his. He started pointing at my change and saying something while laughing. I felt him and his pure energy. I felt like I knew him from another life, which at the time was odd because I was an atheist. I didn’t want to let go of him. He brought a peace to my soul that I haven’t felt since.

My charge started bolting fast, so I had to go. I turned to him and said, “Thank you.” He squeezed my hand and let me go, rambling something joyous as I left.

This happened over 7 years ago, but it’s one of the most influential moments of my life. Did we know each other in another life? Was he a nice man just saying I was doing a good job raising a child? Was he talking about the beautiful weather? I’ll never know.

But the one thing I do know is, he cared. He wasn’t deterred by the impossible language barrier. He had a message to give me and he trusted that it would get across. He gave me a memory to hold onto forever and in it I only remember comfortably holding hands with a stranger, a beautiful spring day, peace, and children’s laughter.

What a beautiful gift…

Caring Too Much Can Kill

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I landed a job as an Interior Plant Specialist in 2022. It was a dream job, but it came with anxiety. I was given huge accounts by the most successful companies in my city. I would visit each location once every two weeks. I held my breath each time I parked, praying the thousands of dollars of plants didn’t croak. I was puzzled. How can plants go that long without weekly, or daily, care? There were tiny plants, huge trees, plant walls, and trailing vines that spanned stories.

I tended to plants in windowless hospital basements, trees in 50 ft floor-to-ceiling windows, and everything in between. I loved my job. I did end up killing numerous plants, yet my supervisor gave me grace. It comes with the territory. People have a hard time keeping one houseplant alive, so keeping hundreds of thousands of plants alive is a feat.

She would always tell me, “You’re overwatering! Stop babying them so much. They’ll be okay.” I had a hard time trusting her. If I didn’t water a plant during my bi-weekly visit, then that means it wouldn’t get water for an entire month. Fear coursed through my veins. My way wasn’t working, so I decided to scale back on my watering. It worked! I really was loving them to death.

The less I watered, the more they thrived. I relaxed, so they relaxed. Plants need oxygen just as much as they need water. I learned that plants are forgiving. If I drown them in water, they’re dead. If I skimp on water, they might droop, but they always pop back. Plants are old as time. They have intricate root systems and complex survival mechanisms.

Did you know houseplants can sense their owners from over a mile away? They lack nervous systems, but they react to light/sound/touch/vibrations. They can alter their growth patterns based on human presence. Plants feel us. They’re ancient. I came to know and love all my charges. They were just as real to me as any human.

I had to leave this job because I moved. It was heartbreaking. I’ll never forget my first week of work. I shadowed the man who was in charge of the accounts I was taking over for two weeks. He was 6’ 4” and very masculine. He was kind and shy. On the last tree of his last shift, he broke down in tears, his shoulders moving up and down in jagged movements. I froze. I didn’t know how to interpret the situation. I looked around embarrassed at the people staring at us. When I turned back to him, he was hugging the tree and petting it. Yes. He was hugging it. I was mortified.

He apologized for getting emotional. He said these plants got him through his divorce and he grew fond of them. He said he talked to them and didn’t know how he was going to get through not taking care of them anymore. I don’t even remember what I said, but I thought he lost his mind. Little did I know, I would be doing the same thing a year later…

It’s hard work keeping plants alive. I grew fond of some and hated others. I took pride and ownership of them. I cared deeply for them. It’s been over two years since I worked there and I still wonder about them. Did the next caretaker give them the love they needed? Did they die? Do they miss me as much as I miss them?

In my opinion, caring for plants is a mirror to our interpersonal style. I loved my plants so much that I killed them. I thought more about ME than I did about THEM. I didn’t want to get in trouble for neglect, so I covered my bases by overwatering so my boss couldn’t say I didn’t try. Once I stepped back, I could see I was being selfish and wasn’t attuned to the plants needs.

I started learning their preferences. Two identical plants, sitting mere inches from each from one another, have different watering needs. It was my job to learn that, and overtime I did. I took a cautious approach and trusted that they would tell me what they needed. I observed them objectively and noticed subtle differences in their growing patterns and leaf distribution. Once I started thinking more about THEM than I did ME, they thrived.

I learned so much about relationships through plants. They were like a Freudian Psychotherapist reflecting my projections. I started to see that there were times I was smothering my husband to death even though it was veiled in love. I was thinking more about myself than his feelings, needs, and preferences. Sometimes I wanted to process everything down to the most minute detail with him, but I found that he likes space to breathe and reflect alone until he forms an opinion.

Sometimes all we need in life is a reminder that we’re coexisting with everything…plants, people, jobs, houses.

Starting Over

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Spring, a time of renewal and growth. It’s about new beginnings and rejuvenation. As I’ve gotten older, I look to nature to sync up my natural rhythm. I stopped caring about climbing the corporate ladder and the never ending “go go go.” I change with the seasons and it’s set me up for a stable, full life.

In summer, I ramp up. I garden, exercise, and become much more social. There’s graduations, weddings, and cook outs. I take it all in and breathe deeply. I’m more positive and productive. I savor the beauty of the never setting sun, fresh fruit, full trees, and gorgeous blooms. I don’t need as much sleep and feel naturally light.

In fall, I’m thankful. I start to slow my roll. I take in the last moments of the glowing leaves, shining bright oranges, deep reds, and soft yellows. I love the chunky sweaters and warm apple cider. I get excited about spooky decorations and the cheerful kids wanting to collect as much candy as possible. I think deeply about what I want to let go and what I need to heal as the year wraps up.

It sounds easy, but changing mental states can feel scary. It’s hard not operating the same everyday, but I know the burn out feels worse. The last few years of letting go of perfection and over-performing have been humbling to say the least. I feel judgment from the majority of people who don’t seem to subscribe to seasonal adjustments. But when I let go of perceptions and look to nature, I feel whole and on track.

This year hit differently though. I was hit with two major medical setbacks. I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that prevents me from being in the scorching sun and I suffered a severe foot injury that involved surgery and six months of rehab, four of which were couch bound. It was horrific. I’m still not back to my pre-injury self. I don’t know if I ever will be either.

I’m ready for my springtime renewal. I want to start seeds and mow the newly green grass. I want to hike with my dog in the spring air and feel fullness. I want to set new goals and start working towards them…but I can’t. I’m not physically able. It’s left me scared and confused. I still feel like I’m in the dead of winter.

I thought I would be better by now. I thought I would be so much further than I am. I worry that I’m never going to get my stamina back. I feel lost and out of tune. This is the first time my body isn’t changing with the natural seasons and I don’t know what to do about it. I look to the trees and flowers and feel bitterness. I’m jealous of their effortless, natural transformation. I long for easy growth and seamless transitions, but they’re not coming.

I wish I could say that I choose positivity and hope, but most days negative feelings wash over me. I want to hide and stay in the darkness. I feel unsettled with the longer days and changing into pajamas at 5pm still. I see my neighborhood coming alive again. Kids play basketball and ride bikes, and all I feel is fury. I can’t believe I took my physical health for granted. Being able-bodied my entire life, I didn’t know the struggles people with disabilities go through. It’s so much harder to live and it’s as if no one else lays witness to it. It’s an internal struggle that I have to face alone.

I pray that I can have the fortitude to keep moving forward. I hope my attitude adjusts with the changing season. I want my jealously to wane. Until then, I will continue to sit in the darkness and respect myself as I am today. I might not be blooming, but I will be one day. This might be a year of winter and I’m going to have to let that be okay. I know I can’t be the only one going through this. Instead of looking to nature for camaraderie, maybe it’s time to look towards other humans who are also experiencing a long winter.

Can you relate?

Avoiding Motherhood

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I’ve been reading my book outside in the cold spring air. The sun is shining and I’m not moody or anxious. I can breathe out here. My book is about a mother telling her three adult daughters how, when you’re older, you don’t care to go to the carnival anymore…you don’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny. The magic of life is drained away and you have to deal with reality. You hold all sides of life – the boring, the mundane, the evils, the triumphs, and the beauty. She was trying to explain to them that loving their stable, boring father was infinitely better than loving her famous actor boyfriend in her 20’s. They couldn’t believe her.

It hit me with a hard dose of reality. I can remember being young, naive, and in love. My husband, then boyfriend, was only good. We went to carnivals, on bike rides, to parties, to ice cream shops, bought Easter baskets, and had fun at bowling alleys. We knew life had hardships because our parents were killed when they were young, but we were young enough to compartmentalize the evil because the high of young love was so great.

I have tears slowly streaming down my face at the nostalgia of it all.

This makes his hand on the small of my back the other day 10 times more special.

Being in a romantic relationship with someone for 16 years, I’ve experienced the magic falling away. It’s hard to connect with, or even remember, the highs of the honeymoon phase because it’s not our normal anymore. We’ve been through financial hardships, affairs, therapy, family wars, substance misuse, and career changes. We became adults, when we used to be kids. Love used to be our only job and we did it so well. Our rose colored glasses faded to clear lenses. We see life for what it really is – impossibly hard and innately beautiful. We appreciate the hardships because the calluses make our bond stronger everyday. We have a silent underlying fear of losing one another because our lives have become one. How could one exist without the other? We are each other’s home.

As I have been housebound for four months, I have become an expert at watching tv. After my surgery, we binged Breaking Bad. It was horrific. The season finale made me want to vomit. Seeing Walt abandon his family and leave them in financial and emotional ruin brought up all of the demons from my distant past…the dark house, the absent parent hardened by immense grief, the broken teenager, the new normal of fantasizing about the warm past. I cried so many tears. We picked Young Sheldon after it because it was lighthearted and funny. This was our second rewatch. I used to love it and laugh at it, but knowing George dies in the end taints every season. I didn’t want to see their comfortable living and small world problems anymore, knowing that soon enough they would be struck with insurmountable grief. I can’t unsee the last season and feel the full joy of the previous seasons. They’re tainted. I want to yell through the screen, “Savor this! Stop fighting about stupid stuff because George won’t be there soon!!”

I remember my therapist telling me that she had to censor what her oldest child watches because she was deeply affected by emotionally charged shows. I thought it was ridiculous, but now I understand because it happens to me too. My life is rich with deeply felt emotions. While I sob at people dying, others watch it dry eyed. They can’t connect to something they haven’t experienced. My past washes over me as the scenes nail every emotion I’ve tried to forget. I have catalogued every emotion under the sun.

I’m bitter that my past has controlled my present and future. I hate that my glasses were only rose colored for the first four years of my life, while others have them into their 40’s. I didn’t bring kids into this world based on my own experience. I projected my trauma onto my unborn. They never materialized because I was doing the most heroic thing a mother can ever do – protect her kids from evil. I prevented the heartache of being bullied, the high statistical possibility of sexual abuse, financial ruin, of losing a parent to an untimely death, their first heartbreak, prejudice, and failing health. I took the bullet for them. They never asked for the gift of a hard life…they never asked for life at all.

But is that fair? Is my lack of an easy, beautiful, rich life their fault? Is my inability to immerse myself, and believe, in the innate good of the world their problem?

Maybe I missed the point of life entirely. Instead of striving to provide the perfect life for them, I should have accepted the reality of a nuanced life. Maybe a child’s love could have healed my broken heart enough to make me a good enough mother. Maybe the bond with my child, my own flesh and blood, could have given me the chance of redemption…a path to a beautiful life for the both of us. I could try with all my might to keep their world rosy long enough to withstand the certainty of an unfair world. I could give them the gift of a safe, warm, stable childhood that could soothe their broken adult hearts. I could lay a path so stable that my own insecurities would never bleed into theirs. I could fail again and again as a mother, yet still be humble enough to accept their ultimate forgiveness that they would be equipped to give because I modeled it enough times. I could be the definition of unconditional love that they could always reference. I could be their safe space to land, even after death.

The Peace Lily and the Power of Stillness

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A Lesson in Quiet Resilience

If you’ve ever been to a funeral, you know exactly what a Peace Lily is. It represents the rebirth of the departed soul from the physical world to a more peaceful place. They’re striking with the dark green leaves and bright white blooms. I have been to many houses that have that single houseplant and they speak reverently about who passed and how they’ll never get rid of it or let it die.

I love Peace Lilies. They’re upfront about their needs. They love bright, but indirect, light. It throws a tantrum when it’s distressed by dramatically drooping its leaves. They reward us with graceful white blooms when we care for them just so. It’s imperative to create a relationship with this plant. They’re like an easy baby; as long as you follow a schedule and give it what it asks for, it’s happy.

I think this plant is a wise teacher. It draws parallels from the plant world and our lives. It reminds us that humans need gentle environments, emotional attunement, and patience in personal growth too.

Sensitivity isn’t a weakness. The Peace Lily thrives in soft light and wilts when neglected, much like sensitive people who need mindful surroundings to flourish. Instead of labeling sensitivity as fragility, this plant shows us it’s a strength that demands deeper care and understanding.

A prominent lesson is that signs are subtle, but honest. A peace lily doesn’t scream when it needs water—it droops. Humans, too, often give quiet signs of burnout, sadness, or stress. Learning to recognize these subtle cues in ourselves and others is a practice in empathy and emotional intelligence.

I’m a natural empath and people pleaser. I can be the Giving Tree. However, I have learned my limits. I used to burn out by giving so much of myself to others that I didn’t have anything left. I get a short fuse when I’m emotionally depleted. I start resenting people and start to isolate. It took a long time for me to look inside of myself and set boundaries. It felt awkward telling people no and I was ridden with guilt for a couple years. However, I have noticed that I’m much happier now that I learned to strike balance.

I recognized that blooming takes time. The white bloom doesn’t appear overnight. It comes only with sustained attention and the right conditions. Just like healing, creativity, or growth—it can’t be forced. You can’t rush a Peace Lily into flowering, nor can you rush your own transformation.

I started to understand that I need to take care of myself first to be useful to others. If I’m operating from a place of obligation, it doesn’t feel good to me or the people I love. When I’m attending to my needs, I naturally want to help others bloom. I feel a lightness about me when the conditions are right. I can’t operate at full capacity 24/7. Just like plants need darkness to recharge, I do too.

The peace lily is a cleanser of air and calmer of spaces. Peace Lilies are natural air purifiers. They silently cleanse what’s unseen—just like how certain people calm rooms with their presence, or how stillness itself can detoxify the chaos in our lives.

In a world that prizes speed, noise, and toughness, the Peace Lily invites us to embrace softness, slowness, and care. It reminds us that peace isn’t passive—it’s a powerful, living thing that must be nurtured.

Freshwater Jellyfish Freeze Time

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Did you know there are freshwater jellyfish that float around in Midwestern ponds? I didn’t. I’ll never forget the day I discovered it. I was floating in our pond and the sun was beating down on me in a brutally soothing way. I thought I felt something swim past my hand and opened my eyes to the horror of hundreds of JELLYFISH surrounding me!

I couldn’t figure out if I was having a heat stroke or about to die by a thousand stings, so I froze. They surrounded my legs and torso, tickling me, but did not sting. They were the size of nickels. My mind was shooting reels of people in Florida being stung by venomous box jellyfish and their flesh falling off. I remained still until they disappeared, then I swam like hell to shore when they were out of sight. I had to find my husband!

He told me I was full of it. He said he never heard of such a thing. Upon further investigation on Google, I was pleased to find out that freshwater jellyfish do exist and I wasn’t having a stroke. We were blown away. We called the DNR office and asked about them. They said they’re quite rare because “the conditions must be just right.” He kept stressing that point. We have a natural spring fed pond that is over an acre in size and hasn’t been disturbed in decades. It’s as clear as a bottle of water.

Nature has done it’s job in creating a perfectly balanced aquatic ecosystem. The Peach Blossom Jellyfish arrive every August and stay for a couple months to eat the zooplankton. They surface and swarm us in the late afternoon and around sunset on clear, warm days. It is probably our families greatest treasure on the land. We get extended family and friends to come down and experience this rare treat.

August and September have become the most influential months in my life because of the Peaches. It’s a time where I’m tired of long, hot summer days. Every year I wait in anticipation of the first day where I dip in the pond to cool off and my see-through friends float up to greet me. It brings a childlike squeal and massive smile to my face each time. It’s better than Christmas, because I never know when, or even IF, they’re going to come. Their conditions are fragile and they’ve been accustomed to no one being around for decades. We’ve only inhabited the land for four years now. Will our frequent swims with sunscreen, removing dead trees, and adding a dock contribute to their demise?

It reminds me to stay present with them. Each time I see them could be the very last time. I want to memorize how their translucent color looks magical over my bronze skin, a perfect backdrop to analyze all their tiny tentacles. I notice how I’m equally grossed out and enamored with how it feels as they glide across my skin by the dozens. They capture my full attention with their various sizes. The babies that are fully formed, yet hardly the size of a pin head, melt my heart. I wade around with them for hours.

My daily struggles and worries have no place when I’m with the Peaches. My stresses will always be available when I need access to them. They don’t discriminate or require any special conditions. They can be put on the back burner.

August and September are months where I actively choose to stay present with Mother Nature. I want to soak in every detail before the darker months begin to hit. I naturally notice how the sun is lower on the horizon and closer to the tree line. I see the leaves slightly start to shrivel in preparation for their big fall. I notice the animals coming out earlier in the evening. I notice the Peaches enjoying the warmth of the water 15 feet off the bank. I see the wildflowers in full bloom, putting out their all before it’s time to go to seed. I see the fox in his burrow.

It reminds me that I am a part of nature too. How should my behavior be changing with the upcoming season? Should the fact that I have a waterproof home with heat/air conditioning and electrical lighting really require me to function at the same capacity year round and reject Mother Nature’s natural cycle changes? If I really think about it, that sounds like a recipe for disaster. It sounds like a surefire way to get burnt out, sick, angry, exhausted, and dysregulated.

Lavender Remedies for the Soul

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I was hiding in the cold garage, berating myself for smoking. It’s a naughty habit that I only succumb to in times of immense stress. I was hurling the most vile insults at myself. I felt like I couldn’t breathe as the panic started to hit my chest. The plumes of smoke became too dense to find oxygen.

Even though I’m allergic to the sun, I ran outside unprotected. I needed fresh air to level my head out ASAP. I walked to my dinky garden, which never got finished since I was in the throes of figuring out my blistering skin disease this summer. There were only a few wildflowers that were strong enough to survive complete neglect and clay soil that had never been amended. I couldn’t help but be embarrassed of it. It was another reminder of my failures.

I hung my head low in defeat. A bit of royal purple caught my eye. It was the last remnants of the sugary sweet butterfly bush flowers and lavender. They were releasing a mesmerizing scent. I stopped and picked the mostly dead flowers to enjoy before the freeze.

The scent soothed my angry heart.

As I took deep breaths of nature’s perfume in, the negative self-talk was pushed out.

My mind stopped racing. I was able to feel the warm Fall breeze blowing my freshly cut hair. I noticed how comfortable the river rock wall was beneath my bum. I felt the strong Autumn rays connecting with my born-again virgin skin. I saw my beautiful dog rolling in the green grass to scratch his back, bringing a smile to my lips.

Each time I put my nose in my hands, which were cupping the fragrant blooms, my mood improved. My internal dialogue ceased and nature commanded my full attention.

All I thought about was lavender, honey, green grass, and clear blue skies.

I filled my lungs with the cleanest air.

It felt like Nature was giving me CPR.

I realized that whatever state I’m in, I’m beautiful and whole. I cycle just like plants do.

The nearly rotting flowers were ugly, but their scent made up for their appearance. The end of October is not their time to shine. It’s a time of preparation. The plants know to let their exposed parts die off because they won’t survive the cold, harsh elements. They focus on retaining sugar in their roots to act as an anti-freeze so they can have the energy to withstand the Winter and be ready to bloom in Spring.

Unlike humans, plants trust their instincts. They have observed their environment and know which steps to take. They have patience and resilience. They accept imposed limitations and give it their best shot, no matter what.

Broken Can Be Beautiful

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My husband and I own beautiful acreage, which has been the biggest blessing of my life. I never dreamed I would have access to acres of natural habitat. For three years, I have spent countless hours alone amongst untouched forest and wildlife. The land hadn’t been logged in 50+ years. It was pristine, like something out of a fairytale.

I became deeply acquainted with all of the trees and had five main “sitting logs” where I would sit and talk to the trees or ponder about life. But 2024 took a hit on our land. Our family decided it would be in the best interest of the forest to get it logged, which fair. It helped pay off the land and it does help rebuild a stronger ecosystem when done correctly. However – it is UGLY! They leave so much debris behind, which the forest needs to heal itself…but it’s unsightly. The loggers only took the giant ones…the ones I fell madly in love with because they’re natural attention grabbers. I was devastated. I cried for a long time and refused to step foot on the property!

I didn’t know how this place could ever feel, or look, good again. I felt horrible for the trees. They lost their leaders. They lost the giants who protected and guided them. I felt bad for the meadow because it was torn to hell. The long blades of wild grasses blowing in the wind always made me feel like I was in a movie when I was walking down the lane.

Then a few weeks later, the worst storm in over 60 years blew through. Our newly open tree canopy created vast empty space for the high winds to rip/bend/twist/mangle trees. I wanted to puke. I screamed so loud the entire county could hear my guttural shrieks. I cursed in utter defeat. I thought it was punishment for getting the area logged. I didn’t want to go there anymore. I avoided most of the property for 5 months. It’s like seeing your loved ones mangled right in front of you. I only saw pain, darkness, and negativity. My eyes were only drawn to the ugly, rotting mess littering the forest floor. I couldn’t see the beautiful green canopy that still remained. I didn’t stare long enough to see the blades of grass poking through the clay dust.

This used to be my favorite spot. It was filled with massive trees and the canopy was 100% full. It was breathtaking. It enveloped me in the most beautiful dappled shade. The first picture with the tree wrapped around another tree is about 50 feet to the left of this tree, which I have now dubbed as String Cheese. What are we even supposed to do with these? They are a death trap for novices like us to try to remove. We definitely would have to hire someone, but we can’t afford it. There are acres of forest like this!

I remember the first day that I spent time there. I was alone and bored, so I hiked. My husband had been working like crazy to clean the place up, but with a full time job and no help from me, it was a slow process. I decided to walk over to my sacred space and see if I could just be with it. To my amazement, I spent an hour there…the blazing orange fall leaves and cool temps definitely helped.

I stood in awe. These two massive trees that are broken beyond repair and normally an eye sore captured me. I couldn’t help but admire them. They have significant battle wounds that they can’t come back from. No tree envies the state they’re in. But aren’t they something? It’s hard to look away. They force you to envision the tremendous amount of wind that took their strength away. They are proof that nature can be a beast and it doesn’t discriminate. It literally chewed them up and spit them out. There was nothing they could do to prevent it from happening.

However, they are magnificent and unique, even in death. They will always remind me of the year that nearly broke me. They will be the perfect reference point to remind me of how far I’ve come in life. I hit rock bottom the exact time that they were being torn to shreds.

With the giants gone, the others have taken advantage and grown more than I thought possible. Their beauty this fall has brought peace to my soul and allowed optimism to creep in. It looks like the forest can breathe, whereas before everything seemed stifled and set. There wasn’t enough light or nutrients for new trees to grow big and strong. Now there is empty space everywhere for new growth. The tree tops left behind by the loggers, while ghastly to look at, have created an enormous influx in wildlife. I have never seen and heard so many animals!

Isn’t life just like that?

We feel grounded and strong, then life comes along and rips us out of our comfort zone. It knocks us down, leaves a mess at our feet, kills our loved ones, and leaves us with permanent scars. But we find others along the way that make the journey bearably beautiful. We find space to share with others who have also experienced pain. We share nutrients and support with others. We bend and bow, but always grow upwards. We grow together and build an entirely new canopy. It’s not better or stronger than the one the giants occupied. It’s its own thing. It experienced horrific devastation and loss, but chose to keep growing anyways.

My Dead Parents Haunt Me

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I’m 34 years old and lost my mom in a tragic accident when I was 14. Then my dad died of a sudden heart attack when I was 31. I hardly have any memories of my mom left, and by the time my dad died, we’d hadn’t spoken in 4 years.

I have been having mysterious health issues and the specialists are trying to figure out the issue. When I met my Rheumatologist for the first time, he spent an hour going over my intake form with me meticulously line-by-line. When he got to the family history list, he saw that both of my parents were deceased.

“Both of your parents have died. Am I reading that correctly?” I clinically confirmed, “Yes. My mom was killed in a car accident and my dad died from a sudden, unexpected heart attack.” I think he was waiting for me to have some emotion, but it never came.

His young eyebrows pinned together, puzzled by my lack of outward emotion and said, “Wow. That must be really difficult. I can’t imagine not having my parents or family.” I light-heartedly agreed and signaled to move on. I knew if he kept probing I might lose it.

When my parents died, I found it hard to speak to people about it. I hated breaking down in tears and becoming inaudible. It is the thing that makes me feel the weakest. So I would turn to the trees. I’d go on long walks, alone at night, and cry/scream at the sky or simply talk about my day…things I would call my parents about. It was pitiful, but healing.

I had huge trees all around my neighborhood. They towered over me at night like a blanket. After big storms, some of my favorites would be the victims of high winds and lightning. I would tear up for a couple of days when I passed them. It was hard for me to accept, but I got used to it.

Unlike humans, grieving for a tree is relatively quick and painless. I miss it, but I know that something else will fill its place. It’s a space of opportunity. I saw a man use a chainsaw to create a chair out of the left over trunk. I saw multiple people create natural flower pots out of the stumps. One person inserted his flag pole in it. And a lot of people left them alone and new growth would come.

Isn’t that just like life? Losing people is HARD. They took a piece of my soul with them. I wasn’t whole anymore and it takes time to rebuild. I can’t throw dirt in it and plant beautiful flowers. I have to give myself grace and grieve what I had, what I lost, and what I’ll never get.

As of today, I don’t think I want to have children. They won’t have grandparents and I won’t have a mom to call in the middle of the night when I’m panicked or broken. I won’t get to see my dad teaching them everything and anything that has to do with the woods. There will be no vacations or Christmas’ with my family of origin.

My heart is still tender. It was a huge milestone when I lost both of my parents. It’s like I’m lost and floating at sea all alone. No one holds my past. It’s been erased. I have no one to flex that muscle with, so it atrophied and died. I must exist in the present moment only. I have no past to bring into it.

When I lost my vantage point of where I came from, life became scarier. Who could I depend on if I got sick/unemployed/something catastrophic? No one. My heart has been so hardened by their deaths, that it’s nearly impossible for me to depend on anyone.

Just like the trees.

Whatever trauma trees go through, it shows. They will always have the bump and inner rings of where a limb was. They will show cracks and bark skinning. It will shape them forever. They can scar just as easily as we can. It does take time for them to heal and they never quit going. They instinctually know to grow where the light leads them.

At the end of the day, that’s all I can try to do too.