Walking the mountain trails in early spring, I could still see the remnants of past seasons.

A fallen tree stretched across the ground.

Branches scattered where a storm once passed through.
Patches of earth that look, at first glance, void of life.

It would be easy to see those places as broken.

But if you slow down, they tell a different story.

From the edges of decaying wood, small green shoots begin to rise.
Seedlings push through softened bark.
New life takes hold in the very places where something once fell.

The ground is richer there. The light reaches further. The space, though unplanned, is open.

What looks like loss has quietly become possibility.

There’s a certain resilience in that kind of growth.

It does not wait for perfect conditions.
It does not begin on untouched ground.
It finds its way forward because something before it made room.

Walking through those sections of the trail, it is hard not to notice how often the most vibrant growth comes from what was left behind.

Not despite it. Because of it.

And maybe that is true beyond the trail.

Sometimes the moments that feel like disruption are also doing unseen work.
Clearing space.
Shifting light.
Changing what can be supported next.

New growth does not always begin where everything is intact.
Sometimes it begins where something has already given way.