I have been growing a garden this year. And I have been growing a novel. I have been growing a new set of nursing skills, working at a clinic for those with opioid addiction. I have been growing a new community, starting out in a new state. I’m growing a love of hiking, and growing a new relationship with my youngest child as he makes his way in the world needing me less, but not not needing me entirely.
Growing is my sense of awe and compassion for people with addiction, at how they continue to put one foot in front of the other given the burdens and traumas they carry, and the sorrows they hold, and the obstacles put in their way by society and so often themselves.
I’ve been growing my ability to set boundaries. Growing my ability to say no.
I’ve been growing my yoga teaching skills.
Growing, is my appreciation for those who do what they say they will do. Those who are who they say they are.
Growing is my capacity to recognize grief isn’t just about physical death. It is no small thing to lose friendships you thought were solid. I am growing in acceptance of what is.
For a while now, I’ve honestly felt kind of hopeless. But the tiniest roots are taking hold. I feel them reaching and grabbing onto something solid once again. I look up from my desk at the giant trees outside my window. Their branches stretch tall toward the heavens, growing, growing, their leaves rustle in a gentle breeze. Their trunks are enormous, sturdy and strong. Each of them once, a tiny seed. Each of them once, a mere possibility.
Michelle O'Neil,Writer 