Lately, I’ve been thinking about the idea of “plant thyself.”
Not physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. Humanly.
It hit me recently that every place I’ve ever lived, I was trying to plant myself there. Trying to root into something. Trying to belong. Trying to create home.
And I think we all do this whether we realize it or not.
Everywhere we go, we leave something behind. Like pollen floating from place to place. Little pieces of ourselves carried into communities, relationships, conversations, memories.
The question is: what are we leaving behind?
When we plant ourselves well, we root into good soil. We surround ourselves with good people. We grow there. Hopefully flourish there. And ideally, we leave the place a little better than we found it.
Maybe we leave behind encouragement.
Maybe laughter.
Maybe safety.
Maybe love.
Maybe we leave oxygen for people long after we’re gone.
As I’ve reflected on this, I realize how deeply important “rootedness” has always been to me, especially as an adopted person.
From the very beginning of my life, there was this deep internal desire to know:
Am I safe here?
Am I wanted here?
Is this home?
I was born in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, and my birth mother made the most selfless decision imaginable. She gave me life through adoption. To say I love her for that feels too small for what she actually gave me. She gave me a future. She gave me possibility. She gave me the chance to become myself.
And then I planted myself in Willingboro, New Jersey, with my parents. My family. My first real roots.
Later, we moved to Bridgewater. Then eventually came New York City, which completely changed my life. I lived there for 10 years, in different neighborhoods, surrounded by different people, different careers, different versions of myself.
I planted pieces of myself all over that city.
Then Connecticut. Four different homes over another decade. More seasons of life. More growth. More mistakes. More lessons.
And then Missouri.
I’ve now lived in Missouri longer than I’ve lived anywhere else in my entire life. Twenty-two years.
That’s astonishing for someone who used to move every 10 years or less.
And it makes me stop and ask:
What have I actually planted here?
What did I contribute to the people around me?
Did I create warmth?
Did I make people feel seen?
Did I leave something lasting behind?
Because planting yourself somewhere isn’t about occupying space.
It’s about contributing life to it.
And honestly, I don’t think I’ve done it perfectly anywhere.
But maybe the point isn’t perfection.
Maybe the point is awareness.
To become more intentional. More deliberate. More conscious about how we live among other people.
How we show up.
Did I say hello?
Did I smile?
Did I encourage somebody?
Did I make someone feel safer?
Did I awkwardly, clumsily try to love people anyway?
Yeah. I think I did sometimes.
But I want to do better.
And maybe that’s what growth really is.
Not becoming someone entirely different.
Just becoming more rooted in the best parts of who you already are.