How the Redwoods taught me to receive support
In May of 2023, Joe and I found ourselves standing beneath the towering giants of one of Northern California’s smaller redwood forests. Most larger parks were still closed, recovering from the dual blows of forest fires and flooding. In a way, it seemed fitting that we ended up here, in this small pocket of forest surrounded by trees scarred from fire. The sight struck me deeply. Even though these massive trees bore the marks of flames—charcoal streaks that would remain visible for centuries—they stood tall, growing steadily, offering shelter. Their strength came from their immense size and something much deeper—holy.
Along the trail, we discovered a tree affectionately named Old Tree. Old Tree stands over 280 feet tall, is over 12 feet in diameter, and has lived longer than 1200 years. Old Tree witnessed and survived so much. She, too, bears the charcoal scars from fire.
The signs throughout the forest taught me that redwoods are uniquely equipped to survive fire. Their thick bark offers protection, but even more remarkable is their interconnected root system. Beneath the forest floor, roots from one tree intertwine with others, allowing them to share resources. When a tree is injured or stressed—perhaps from a fire—its neighbors send nutrients underground, helping it recover. The idea of these unseen connections, of a vast support system beneath the soil, reminded me of Adrienne Maree Brown’s Emergent Strategy.
“E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G—is connected. The soil needs rain, organic matter, air, worms and life in order to do what it needs to do to give and receive life. Each element is an essential component. “Organizing takes humility and selflessness and patience and rhythm while our ultimate goal of liberation will take many expert components. Some of us build and fight for land, healthy bodies, healthy relationships, clean air, water, homes, safety, dignity, and humanizing education. Others of us fight for food and political prisoners and abolition and environmental justice. Our work is intersectional and multifaceted. Nature teaches us that our work has to be nuanced and steadfast. And more than anything, that we need each other—at our highest natural glory—in order to get free.”—Adrienne Maree Brown, Emergent Strategy
This natural web of support reminded me of the community that held me during my own seasons of fire and loss. In the span of six months, both of my parents died. The grief that followed was intense, raw, and consuming. And yet, just like the redwoods, I didn’t face it alone. Beneath the surface of my day-to-day life, a network of friends and family stood ready to help me survive. Some sent meals, others offered words of encouragement, and still others checked in, letting me know I was in their thoughts. Like the trees, these people nourished my roots, keeping me upright when I wasn’t sure if I could stand.
As we continued our hike, we came across signs that explained more about the redwoods’ resilience. I learned that fire isn’t just something they survive—it’s something they need. Fires clear away underbrush and open the soil, allowing new seedlings to take root. The forest grows stronger because of the fire, not despite it. It was a reminder that, though painful, grief and hardship can lead to growth. The scars left by loss are real and visible, just as the blackened bark of the redwoods is. But in the right conditions, they allow something new to emerge.
There’s another phenomenon in the redwood forests that fascinated me: the family circles, or fairy rings, where new trees sprout up around a central, often fallen, parent tree. It’s a powerful image—life continuing even after the original tree has died, the next generation growing stronger because of what came before. It made me think about legacy, about the ways my parents continue to influence me even after they are gone. I am, in many ways, a part of their ring, still drawing strength from the roots they left behind.
Grief, like fire, destroys and transforms. It leaves us changed, sometimes scarred and opens us up to new growth. The wilderness of grief can feel isolating, and the emotions raw and untamed. Like the redwoods, I was not alone. Like the redwoods, you are not either. We are connected by a vast system of roots that can nourish us.
As Joe and I stood in that forest, surrounded by these ancient trees that had survived so much, I felt a deep sense of peace. The trees had faced fire and flood, yet they stood tall, thriving in their hidden web of connection.
In life, as in the forest, we all carry our scars. But those marks are not just reminders of pain—they are also symbols of survival, of the support we receive from those around us, and of the new growth that is always possible, even after the hardest of seasons.