This Talk of Transplanting

“It’s absolutely normal,” he says,
“Every plant goes through it.”

“The leaves wilt. The stems droop. The flowers may fall.
Essentially, it looks like it’s going through depression.”

“What you psychologists call Adjustment Disorder, we call Transplant Shock.”

“And plants aren’t the only ones to go through it,” he adds, raising an eyebrow as he glances at me, cheekily, knowingly.

But before we plunge too deep into the metaphor, let’s ask why might we even transplant in the first place, especially knowing how difficult & detrimental such a process can be.

We do so because it is in service of Growth.

Growth compels not only our branches to expand upwards, but also our roots to extend downwards.

We begin in small containers, perhaps as cuttings or seedlings, slowly finding our way in the web of things.

As we grow, the vast, dense world becomes slowly more discernable — our curious limbs reaching through familiar soil, feeling through the fine fabrics of life, until we inevitably touch upon a limit, a wall, a halt.

And then, we begin curling into ourselves; wanting, hoping, yearning to still grow, but uncertain which way to go when out is no longer an option.

So we go in. And in. And in.
Swirling roots like curling hair,
hardening to some semblance of solidity.

All the while, our branches, our leaves, our flowers, which were once the blossoming & blooming chorus of our compositions, now simply hold steady — still on the surface, while what’s below tills, spills, and toils.

Until one day, when a kind, somewhat divine hand lifts us from our steeled homes; and begins breaking away the crackling, calcified stones to release our grasping fingers, gasping for air and for life.

An unknowable liberation — one that may only be lived.

And yet, we need stability. A place to call home.
A place to settle our hands, hearths, and hopes.

So we are placed in a brand new container,
one that is much bigger, wider, deeper,
for us to begin anew. To evolve.
To open this new chapter.

It overwhelms us at first.

Though we were desperate for change, for expansion, this is all too unfamiliar, and we need time. We need to turn inward once more. Just for a bit. Just to remind ourselves, assure ourselves, that this is, indeed, what we wished for and that we have, indeed, what it takes to survive this, to live through this, and be better for it.

So yes, our leaves will wilt, our stems will droop, our flowers may fall.

But that does not mean we are dying.

No, we are being reborn.

For this is growth.

Transplanting Wisdom

Travis, the horticultural wizard who once spoke this wisdom to me, also shared a vital tip for undergoing the process of transplanting in a smoother and kinder way:
”Bring something familiar into the new.”

For him, this meant bringing a handful of soil from the previous pot into the new one.

For me, this means bringing small photos, tokens, and momentos to hang up wherever I land, so that I have the familiar I hold dear interspersed between the vast array of novelty that surrounds me.

Reflections for Growth

How do you support your transitions and your growth?

What are some ways you bring the familiar into the novel?

Where are you feeling your roots curling up, and how can you choose to liberate them?

Invitations for Practice

This week, I invite you to grant yourself grace with your transitions with the knowledge that Transplant Shock is completely normal for all living things, you included.

Reflect on how bringing familiar elements into new environments helps you adjust and grow. Whether it’s a cherished memento, a comforting routine, or a supportive connection, let these familiar touches ease your transitions.

As you practice, jot down your thoughts and experiences. And as always, feel free to share your reflections directly with me.

Till next week, take care, be kind, & grow well,

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