Seventeen years ago, we moved into our New Hampshire home. Nestled against the back stone wall was a black walnut tree, a quiet, unassuming presence that had been there long before us. Its sparse branches gave it a sculptural beauty, and though it wasn’t the healthiest tree, it thrived in its own way, offering a perch for birds and a playground for squirrels.
We lovingly dubbed it the “self-trimming tree” as branches would drop off over the years, leaving it ever more weathered, yet still standing. It was my daily reminder of resilience, persistence, and the quiet elegance that comes with imperfection.
But time, as it does, wore on.
What followed surprised me—and opened up something tender and true.
You can read the full story (and feel into what you might be ready to release, too) over on Substack:
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If this story speaks to your heart, you might enjoy my Substack, where I share tender reflections, everyday magic, and gentle invitations to pause, breathe, and reconnect. It’s a cozy corner of the internet where I write about life, motherhood, creativity, healing, and all the quiet moments in between.
