The wind howls, branches sway, and yet—unless something is already broken inside—they rarely fall. Their secret isn’t brute strength; it’s their willingness to bend.

For a long time, I misunderstood resilience. I thought it meant holding firm no matter what. I prided myself on being strong, dependable, unshakable. But the truth is, that kind of rigidity doesn’t protect us—it wears us down.

When life brought its own storms, I learned what the trees already knew: real resilience has roots and movement. It’s grounded yet flexible.

I remember walking after a heavy windstorm, noticing a maple on my property bent low but still alive. Its trunk had arched gracefully instead of snapping. A few feet away, a dead branch lay cracked and splintered. I paused, realizing I’d spent years living like that branch—trying to stay upright through sheer willpower, refusing to yield even when the pressure became too much.

That moment mirrored what was happening inside me. I’d been pushing through every challenge with determination, convinced that to rest or soften meant failure. My body, however, knew otherwise. Fatigue, tension, and finally injury became the language it used to get my attention. Like the trees, I needed to learn how to bend.

Resilience isn’t a performance of strength; it’s a relationship with flow. It’s listening to the rhythm of life and responding instead of resisting. When the winds of change blow, we can either brace until we break or breathe and let ourselves move.

The trees model this so beautifully. Their roots reach deep for nourishment, anchoring them in unseen strength. Their trunks remain steady, but their branches sway freely. They don’t resist the wind—they dance with it. In that motion, they survive, adapt, and continue to grow.