For most of my life, I’ve felt more like a potted plant than something truly rooted. You know the type—easy to move around, set by a window for the right light, tucked in a new corner when things shift. Mobile. Adaptable. Not quite settled.
I’ve never really felt at home enough to root. Not in a deep, earthy, grounded way.
But over the years—through moves, through changes, through some hard-earned lessons—I’ve learned to plant myself. Or maybe, to recognize the soil that was always waiting.
I’ve begun to feel what it means to be rooted.
And not just in one place, but in many—
In my family, the home we’ve created in each other and for each other.
In my sobriety, where I return to myself again and again.
In nature, always reminding me how to breathe.
And most of all, in my work.
Each of these holds me, teaches me, nourishes me.
They remind me that I don’t have to be fully formed to grow. That it’s okay if my roots reach deeper in some seasons than others. Growth isn’t linear—it’s cyclical, like the tides, like the trees, like life.
I am still growing into myself.
Rooted.
Rising.