Where the Roots Could Breathe

Last year, I planted bok choy seeds in my garden with the quiet hope of a flourishing harvest. I watered them, watched the soil, waited patiently—but nothing came up. Not a single sprout. Weeks passed, and I started to wonder if the seeds had been faulty. Maybe they were too old. Maybe it wasn’t the right season. I felt that soft kind of discouragement that gardeners know well—when you give your care to something, and it doesn’t seem to give anything back.

And then, one day, I noticed a single bok choy plant growing—not in my garden, but out of a crack by the garage wall. It had found the tiniest sliver of earth to press into, where cement met stucco. No one had planted it there. It had blown with the wind or been carried by rain. And somehow, it had taken root.

There was something about the sight of it—thriving in the unlikeliest place—that stopped me. It felt symbolic. Sacred, even. For a while, I left it where it was. I wanted to see how long it could last in its chosen crevice. And it did okay, for a time. But I knew that as strong-willed as it seemed, it wouldn’t survive long without more space, more nourishment, more room to stretch out and grow.

So I gently dug it up and moved it to my garden bed—the place I had intended for growth all along. And once its roots had room to breathe, it thrived. It became one of the biggest bok choy plants I’ve ever grown. We harvested it months later and made stir-fry with it, a meal that felt like a story in itself.

It reminded me that none of us are accidents—not the places we begin, not the ways we first show up in the world. But survival doesn’t always equal flourishing. Sometimes we’re planted in tight corners or toxic relationships or pasts that can’t hold us anymore. And healing—real healing—means being willing to be uprooted. It means trusting that there’s better soil waiting.

Where you came from doesn’t have to be where you stay.
You deserve more than just surviving.
You deserve to thrive.