The Ache of Absence and Learning Gratitude for Growth

It’s been a while since I posted on my blog, sent a newsletter, or updated my website, and I’ve felt the weight of that absence at least once a week since the end of November.

At first, I told myself I’d get to it the next day. Then the next. Then the next. And suddenly, it was a new year. I’d been missing from that sphere entirely for months.

I’ve felt guilty. Lazy. Like I’m constantly behind the ball.

Mostly, I’ve felt like I’m letting myself down—like I’m failing to do the job I wanted when I wrote my book. I’ve always felt unsure of my marketing skills, and this absence felt like confirmation of my fears. So I kept moving it to the bottom of my to-do list, unwilling to face what felt like proof of my own disappointment.

But the truth is, this has been one of the hardest seasons of my life.

The creative energy I usually save for joy, writing, or release has been funneled into sheer survival. My days—already full of parenting and full-time work—intensified. I was “on” from 6 AM until 10 PM some nights, with no margin left.

There were hospital visits. New therapists. Medication changes. Sleepless nights.

Tears. Screaming matches over food, screens, school, and friends.

Late work assignments. Missed days.

Sometimes I’d manage to slip in an Instagram post or a fragment of writing. But those moments were rare, and the rarity hurt. My creativity is a part of me, and its absence felt like a physical ache.

Still, I had to protect my family. My children. My own health.

And that meant setting aside the self-care I love most.

And when it came to anything more complicated than “fun,” that energy was just… gone.

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I’ve had to face my preconceptions about falling behind and about my own human capacity to endure.

We are taught to value visible success. We are rewarded for productivity and promotions, children who appear ‘good’ and ‘stable,’ and homes that are cute and cozy.

How do we begin to unravel that productivity and presentation are not always synonymous with success?

Who gets to say that visible success is the only way to prove we are making a difference?

As a devoted botanist, I have been reflecting on roots to answer this question.

How often do you consider the roots of a tree, of your rose bushes, or under the grass in your lawn?

We see the unfurling of green leaves in spring, feel the shade of our trees in the summer, marvel at crimson blossoms, pick apples in fall, and enjoy the soft press of green yards.

Very rarely do we consider the hidden world underground.

Sometimes, we are meant to rest, reset, and grow deeper, rather than produce a visible work.

Showing up during this season has been learning to value the roots of my life. It’s okay to devote my time and energy to stretch my strength where no one sees. I push the growth down into the darkness of the soil, reaching out for nutrients that might be appreciated later in areas seemingly unrelated.

For how do the leaves get enough water and micronutrients to become our summer shade? Where do the chemicals needed to make bright colored petals come from? Why is the lawn soft and supportive, even if we don’t have dependable rain sometimes?

Why is your apple sweet? Your tomato round and juicy? Your garden humming with bees?

Our roots, if we have the patience to grow them, keep the tree stable during storms. They fill us with the water and nutrients for growth.

So we might celebrate and praise the bloom, but we rarely acknowledge the deep growth of stable root systems that make those flowers lasting.

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Sometimes showing up looks like stillness.

If a friend of mine were going through a similar absence, I’d hug her. I’d ask how I could support her—not push her to “produce.” I’d remind her that progress isn’t always forward motion.

I hope I’d say:

“We’re not lacking anything unless we lose your presence altogether.

You don’t have to do anything to matter to us.”

That has translated into my creative brain.

This season has shaped me—and shaped my characters too.

What would Ren’wyn do if she were too exhausted to move forward?

What would she let go of, if it meant preserving her spirit?

Could she model a new kind of strength—one that acknowledges exhaustion, sets boundaries, and asks for rest?

Ren’wyn has always struggled with overfunctioning. She gives until she breaks. She bears pain until her body shuts down.

But maybe she, too, could learn to love within her capacity.

Maybe she could teach others that exhaustion isn’t failure.

That delegation is strength.

That grief deserves space.

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Lately, I’ve been learning to honor boundaries in a new way.

I’ve turned down opportunities I once would have begged for.

I’ve said no to things I’d normally love.

And I’m learning that’s okay.

This version of me—right here, right now—deserves to be protected, not sacrificed for a future version of myself.

I’m learning to say no.

To stop when my body begs me to.

To feel the guilt without letting it win.

To cry, and rest, and not apologize for being human.

I’m not good at it yet.

I practice it in therapy.

I press my hand to my chest and whisper grace over the old voices.

I’m learning to grow roots.

And sometimes, I sneak a moment to write.

A flash of poetry. A fragment of honesty.

A breath of myself, set down in a Google doc.

It’s not perfect. But it’s mine.

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If you’re in a season of grief or caregiving, I hope you let yourself breathe.

You don’t have to be productive to be worthy.

The roots you grow in silence will sustain you.

This season may feel counter-cultural—especially in a world that measures worth by achievement.

But I’m learning to celebrate staying where I am.

I’m proud of my survival.

I’m proud of my family’s stability.

My children turn to me when they’re scared. They know I’ll hold them.

That is love. That is success.

And it is rarely seen.

I will not apologize for choosing them.

I will not apologize for choosing me.

Now, I return gently. I will start with what brings me joy.

I will move slowly. I will protect myself.

I will not apologize for my pace.

I will not apologize for my healing.

I’m learning.

I’m growing roots.

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If this is your season, you’re not alone.

As Ren’wyn says to Fael:

“Hold onto the good… And when you can’t, hold on to me.”

We are fighting for something deeper, even in long stretches of silence.

We’ve sacrificed visibility for survival.

We’ve traded productivity for presence.

We’ve let go of the easier path we didn’t get to choose.

That is success. And no one is allowed to take it from you.

If you need this reminder:

You are still fiercely good—not despite, but within your story.

Life is heavy. Hold onto the good.

And when life needs you elsewhere, you’re not falling behind.

You’re not invisible.

You are reaching for the water with your roots—

And someday, you will bloom again.