Where Resilience Takes Root

My backyard is my meditation sanctuary. Over the last few days, I noticed a beautiful Impatiens plant that had pushed its way up through the concrete slab. I was struck by its boldness, its quiet defiance. As if to say, despite the hard and unyielding ground, I found a way to bloom.

These past few months have felt much like that plant’s journey, pushing through spaces not meant to nurture growth. I watched my father’s health steadily fade and made the decision to bring both him and my mom from Rhode Island to South Carolina, hoping the change might restore his strength. It was a lot to carry—logistically, emotionally, and physically—only to lose him not long after.

I’ve faced the ache of his absence, the hollow rhythm of life rearranged. I’ve learned the delicate dance of sharing my home with my mother as she grieves and searches for her footing in a world forever changed. I’ve also said goodbye to a beloved team member who moved on to a new company, and in her absence, I’ve stretched, adjusted, and felt the gentle void that comes when someone you’ve mentored and relied on steps into a new chapter.

I’ve missed my family, scattered hundreds of miles away. I’ve battled Covid, a severe kidney infection, pneumonia, bronchitus, the flu, and the kind of bone-deep sciatica pain that tests your resolve. I’ve walked beside others in their heartbreak while tending to my own. I’ve missed my son, three thousand miles away. The kind of missing that tugs at you in quiet moments, when you wish you could still hear his footsteps, share a simple meal, or curl up on the couch together to watch a movie. And I’ve turned sixty, carrying with me reflection, vulnerability, and the quiet awareness that time moves faster than it once did.

And yet, like that Impatiens breaking through the concrete, I am reminded that beauty and strength often emerge in the least expected places. Beauty is not born only from what is soft or easy. Sometimes it is shaped in the struggle, refined in the weight of what we must carry.

Because maybe that’s the quiet miracle of resilience: that even when life feels unyielding, something within us still reaches for the light. And even when the ground beneath us feels too hard to break through, somehow, we do. We rise, not untouched, but transformed, rooted deeper, blooming still.