I’ve spent a lot of years trying to understand myself.
Not because I thought there was something wrong with me, but because certain thoughts, feelings, and frustrations kept showing up. Like weeds in a garden, I’d pull one out, only to find another growing back somewhere else.
For years, I approached life by examining the branches.
The argument that bothered me.
The disappointment I couldn’t let go of.
The fear that kept resurfacing.
The relationship that wasn’t working.
The frustration that seemed out of proportion to the event that triggered it.
I would write about these things in my journal. Sometimes for days. Sometimes for years.
At first, I thought the goal was to solve the problem.
Eventually, I realized the goal was actually to understand it.
There is a difference.
One of the gifts writing has given me is the ability to sit with an uncomfortable thought long enough to discover where it came from.
Anger, for example, is rarely the root.
It feels like the root because it’s loud.
But anger is often a branch.
Underneath it might be disappointment.
Underneath disappointment might be grief.
Underneath grief might be fear.
And underneath fear might be a simple truth that has been trying to get my attention all along.
It’s easy to see the branches. They loom over you.
The roots, however, require digging.
That’s why I often save my morning writing.
If the same thought keeps showing up day after day, week after week, I start to pay attention.
Not because dwelling on problems is enjoyable.
But because recognizing repetition is information.
I can feel that something inside me is trying to get my attention.
I’ve discovered that most of the energy I’ve spent arguing with myself comes from confusing branches for roots.
I argue with the symptoms.
I debate the details.
I replay conversations.
I revisit old wounds.
I search for the perfect explanation.
All the while, the root sits quietly underground, waiting for me to notice it.
So, once I’ve identified it, something remarkable happens.
The noise starts to settle.
Not because the circumstances change.
Because I finally understand what it means.
Recently, after a great deal of reflection, I found myself returning to a simple realization:
Once I’ve identified the root, I can stop arguing with the branches.
That sentence landed for me in a way I wasn’t expecting.
It explained why certain thoughts kept resurfacing.
It explained why some hurts lingered longer than others.
It explained why I kept writing.
I wasn’t trying to prove anything.
I was digging.
And perhaps that’s what self-discovery really is.
Not creating a new version of ourselves.
Not fixing ourselves.
Not becoming someone else.
Simply uncovering what has been true all along.
The funny thing about roots is that they are hidden.
No one sees the work happening beneath the surface.
People see the flowers.
People see the leaves.
People see the branches swaying in the wind.
But everything above ground depends on what is happening below it.
The same is true of me.
The strongest changes in my life have often begun where nobody else can see them.
In quiet moments.
In journals.
In conversations.
In reflection.
In honesty.
For me, the greatest peace has not come from having all the answers.
It has come from finally stopping the argument with reality.
Reality doesn’t need my approval.
It only asks for my recognition.
And once I stopped arguing with what was true, something unexpected happened.
Hope returned.
Not certainty.
Not a detailed plan.
Just hope.
The kind that shows up when you finally put down a burden you’ve been carrying for a very long time.
Maybe that’s what growth looks like.
Not finding all the answers.
Just finding the root.
And trusting yourself enough to stop digging once you’ve found it.