Rising from the ashes: The first hints of green

 For almost two years now, my narrative has been centered around outrage and grief at what my life has become. I went into great detail explaining how difficult, sad and horrifying it was to go through this journey. I truly did not know how to deal with this, let alone move on from it. I retreated from social life and spent most of my time alone. After a while, I realized something I had known all along but stubbornly refused to acknowledge: Life throws challenges at everyone. Maybe at different points in time, or in different ways. But my life was by no means an exception. After I had fully come to terms with this, I was curious to learn more about how people processed such experiences and what I could learn from them. In this series, I hope to share with my Reader anecdotes from my journey of healing and hope. 

I bought a button rose plant in early June this year. I have had rose plants before, but this one surpassed the best I have ever had. It flowered 2-3 times a week, and each flowering meant 5 or 6 tiny adorable pink roses. I came to love this plant, and would head out to the balcony first thing in the morning after waking up to check on it. Between my husband and I, we made sure to water it every single day because we knew how delicate rose plants could be. Then one morning, I checked on it as usual and saw its leaves completely drooping. I was horrified. Did I forget to water this amazing plant that brought me so much joy? I recalled watering it, but I wasn't certain if that was the previous day or the one before. I hated myself for this. Why couldn't I take care of a tiny little plant? I watered it immediately and fretted over it anxiously the next 3-4 days, but it didn't improve. The leaves drooped even more, then withered and fell to the ground. In a week every single leaf was gone, and even the stem showed no hint of green.

This wasn't my first plant to die. I've lost a few, but somehow this one hurt the most. I usually plucked out the dry stem and replaced it with something new after a week, but I couldn't bring myself to do that this time around. I watered this dead plant every day along with the rest. Every time I looked at this sad plant I only remembered the beautiful flowers. I missed them so much. And then after 2 weeks, I finally made up my mind to plant something else and headed to the balcony. To my astonishment, there was a tiny green leaf on the stem. I checked it once, then twice to be sure that it was from the rose plant and not a weed coincidentally growing close by. It was the rose plant, much to my delight. I've nurtured it carefully after that, and it's been a month since then. I haven't yet seen a single flower, but somehow I don't care. It is enough for me that the plant survived that bleak period. That it continues to grow.

This felt uncannily similar to my experience with grief. It felt like I was plunged underwater, struggling to breathe, gasping for air. Every attempt to get to the surface only made me go deeper. I have wondered many a time. Is it always going to be like this? Will I ever feel normal again? But there was no apparent sign of progress, and I felt at times that for every step forward, I was taking two backward. I had no hope, no glimmer of light. And then one day, surprisingly, it was there, just like this tiny green leaf. I was too scared to believe it, but it was real. Just like my plant, I have not gotten back to my old state. I don't know if I ever will. But this-- this tiny feeling of peace I feel deep down--this is enough for now. I am proud of myself for making it to this point. The hard part was to keep walking without knowing when you get to the light. And all that walking in the dark changes you. But these journeys makes you see the world in ways you never could have imagined, and there is so much tenderness and awe you feel. I am grateful to be experiencing this life.