You Can’t Dictate Growth
A few months ago, Rebekah gifted me a small succulent cutting—an offspring from her thriving plant, appropriately named "Faith." As someone who works with families navigating challenging journeys, I appreciated both the symbolism and the gesture.
I did everything a good mother would do: provided my “Hope” with a spacious new pot, carefully regulated sunlight, quality fertilizer, and strict watering instructions to all family members who might be tempted to drown her with good intentions.
And then I waited for growth.
And waited.
And... nothing happened.
Hope hasn't deteriorated—I can at least claim I haven't killed her—but she hasn't shown any visible progress either. She sits on my windowsill, exactly as she appeared the day Rebekah placed her in my hands, seemingly suspended in time while I check her daily for any sign that my care is working.
"Is it the light? The water? The soil?" I've asked myself repeatedly, studying her for clues.
When I expressed my concerns to Rebekah, she smiled knowingly. "Don't fret," she assured me. "It takes time and patience for Hope to root."
The Unseen Growth
This stubborn little plant has become my unexpected teacher. As I've fussed over Hope, I've recognized how her situation mirrors my relationship with my adult children. The questions feel eerily familiar:
Are they thriving? Am I giving enough support? Too much? Should I intervene more? Less?
With both my plant and my children, I've had to accept that the most significant development often happens beneath the surface, invisible to my watchful eyes. While I see no signs of growth in Hope, she may be developing an intricate root system underground that will eventually support abundant growth. Similarly, our children work through internal processes—forming identities, processing experiences, building resilience—that we can't witness directly.
The most profound growth happens in these unseen spaces.
Who Am I to Dictate Growth?
I've realized that my expectations—for both Hope and my children—stem from my own vision of what thriving should look like. But nature has its own timeline, its own wisdom that often defies our schedules and expectations.
Who am I to dictate how my plant or my children should evolve? Maybe Hope is perfectly content as she is, storing energy, adapting to her environment in ways I don't understand. Maybe my children are exactly where they need to be on their unique paths, even when those paths don't match the ones I might have imagined.
There's a beautiful surrender in acknowledging that while I can provide conditions for growth—the soil, the water, the love, the support—I cannot control the how or when of that growth. Both Hope and my children possess their own intrinsic wisdom about what they need and when they need it.
Living with Uncertainty
In my professional life, I guide parents through the challenging terrain of uncertainty when their children face difficulties. Yet my little plant reminds me that I'm not immune to these same feelings. We all want reassurance that we're doing enough, that our efforts matter, that growth is happening even when we can't see it.
What I'm learning, both personally and professionally, is that uncertainty isn't something to overcome—it's something to embrace. The questions may remain unanswered: Is Hope rooting successfully? Are my children getting what they need? The answers unfold on their own timeline, not mine.
The Gift of Patience
Perhaps the greatest gift I can offer both Hope and my children is not my expertise or intervention, but my patience and trust in their process, whatever form it takes.
I'll continue to provide what I believe Hope needs, but I'll try to release my expectations about her growth schedule. I'll keep supporting my adult children while respecting their journey, even when it takes unexpected turns.
And I'll remember that sometimes, the most important thing we can do for those we nurture is to trust their capacity to grow in their own way, in their own time—even when, especially when, that growth remains invisible to us.
After all, hope itself is an act of faith in what we cannot yet see.
“Hope” today … taking her own sweet time, at least as far as I can see …
