I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end.
Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.
0:00
-11:42
Trees are so beautiful. I often wonder about their strength—how long they’ve stood, how tall they’ve grown, how their roots reach deep beneath the earth to hold them firm. We can learn so much from nature, but especially from trees.
They are majestic—unchanging, yet always changing. Their leaves turn in the fall and fall away in the winter, but they always return in spring, renewed.
I often think about this in relation to my own life. Everything changes, but not all of us stand as strong as we could. I know I haven’t always been as strong as I should be. Yet, in fifty years of living, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever imagined. People have shown me how strong I truly am and how much strength I bring to others.
For most of my life, I thought I was weak. I let people run over me. But I’ve come to realize that even that can be a kind of strength—a gift. Those of us called pushovers often love so deeply that we’ll do anything for others.
My greatest weakness, though, has always been fear—especially the fear of death.
That fear fed my depression, my anxiety, and much of the darkness that consumed me for years. I feared disease, accidents, loss—death in any form.
When my mom was dying, we moved her into my aunt’s house, the same house where I live now. She passed away in the very room where I sleep. I mention this often because it changed me. I thought watching her die would traumatize me, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her side. I stayed, and instead of fear, I felt peace. Her death made me stronger.
My mother made me stronger, even in her passing. And looking back on her life, I see now that she was the strongest person I ever knew. Life was hard for her, and little seemed to go right, but her spirit never broke.
It’s a windy, beautiful day today, and in my quiet moments alone, I’ve learned that even when I thought I was weak, I was strong. Of course, it is God who gives me strength in everything I do. But even in moments when I thought it was all me—when I believed I was the weakest woman alive—I was still strong, because I endured. I survived. And when I look back at all I’ve come through, I can’t deny that strength anymore.
I’m no longer afraid of death. I’m finding strength in other places now—in the trees, in the wind, in the way nature moves and breathes. When we step away from the noise of the world long enough, we begin to see how nature heals us. It brings peace, clarity, and joy.
God gave us nature. Sometimes it’s the only medicine we need, the only therapy our souls crave.
Now my great-aunt Peggy is dying in hospice, also from cancer. She said something recently that would have once made me anxious or sad, but it gave me peace. She told me she isn’t afraid of death—only of pain. She hopes it comes quickly, and she’s ready because she knows where she’s going. That kind of faith, that calm acceptance, makes me stronger too.
We draw strength from others, just as we give it. Our emotions are contagious—our sadness can weigh others down, but our strength can lift them up. I don’t mean we should never cry or never show pain; we absolutely should. But I don’t want to live in darkness anymore. I don’t want to spread my sadness. I want to be strong, for others and for myself.
No matter what we’ve gone through—our traumas, our trials—we can still smile, laugh, and look for beauty. I want to have the strength of trees. I want my roots to grow deep and strong.
That’s my prayer.
I want to be strong like my mother, like my Aunt Peggy—like the woman God created me to be. I know now that everything I’ve endured has shaped me for that purpose. Our pain is not a competition; it’s a testimony.
When we share our weaknesses, especially in the middle of them—not just after we’ve overcome—we show the world what growth really looks like. That’s how others connect. That’s how they find hope.
I want to be a tree that stands tall for a hundred years or more—one that sheds its leaves each year, then returns more vibrant and beautiful than before.
That’s the woman I want to be.
May God bless you, your family, and your life.
The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Redmerski.
Music Credits:
“Box Full of Memories” - Anna Landstrom via Epidemic Sound
“How Long Is Tomorrow” - Franz Gordon via Epidemic Sound
“Redolent” - Ever So Blue via Epidemic Sound
“Smell of Morning Coffee” - Franz Gordon via Epidemic Sound
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.