THE SIGNIFANCE OF ROOTS

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF ROOTS

Roots. The part of a plant that attaches it to the ground or to a support system—usually buried beneath the surface—delivering water and nourishment through a network of branches and fibers.

Let’s sit with that for a moment.

The root attaches. That implies a need for grounding and connection. But what happens when the place we’re meant to be grounded—our foundation—is dry, barren, or toxic? When the soil we’re planted in is already damaged, we begin life with wounded roots. In human terms, that “soil” is our family, our parents, our community. If we’re born into chaos, hatred, trauma, or violence, how do we receive the life-giving nourishment we need to grow a healthy garden?

Now, don’t misunderstand—I was born in love. My parents loved one another deeply and prayed for me. But even love can grow in contaminated soil. Their love came mixed with violence, abandonment, unworthiness, and unresolved trauma. So when I entered the world—a miracle in itself—I disrupted the ground.

I was the only child of their union to survive multiple miscarriages. I came early, fragile, underdeveloped. The doctors gave up. They said my only chance was an experimental surgery. My parents refused. My father declared, “If she’s going to die, she’ll die whole and at home.” They brought me home to die.

Then, a woman my mother barely knew told her she'd seen me in a dream. She said I would survive—but not to let the doctors operate. She gave my mother a concoction made from sulfur and boiled rice water. She instructed her to feed it to me, dipping her finger in it during hospital visits. My mother followed those instructions, praying relentlessly. When they brought me home, she continued. Over time, I gained strength. My cheeks filled out, my skin deepened in color, my body plumped with life. I survived.

That same woman later returned and told my mother to take me back to the hospital so the doctors could see me—but never to reveal what she had done. My mother obeyed. The doctors were stunned. They called me a miracle.

Reflecting on this now, I find it ironic. The very things my paternal grandmother used to belittle me—my skin color, my size—were proof that I had lived. The fullness of my cheeks, the richness of my skin, were signs of healing and survival. What my parents celebrated became the very things others used to try and wound me.

This taught me a lifelong lesson: Be mindful of what you let others name you. Be careful what you believe about yourself. Sometimes, the most dangerous voices are not from outside but from within.

You might think surviving such a dramatic entry into the world would have brought my parents closer. But as I said, their soil was already damaged.

My father was an alcoholic—angry, violent, broken. That brokenness had been pounded into him by his own father. He grew up in poverty, with the weight of responsibility for his siblings placed on him as the oldest child. When there wasn’t enough food, his mother sent him to live with his father, who beat him with straps, sticks, or whatever was within reach. With no safe place to go, my father often slept under his grandfather’s ice house—cold, hungry, dirty, and afraid.

He was teased mercilessly by other children for his torn clothes and unkempt appearance. His response? Violence. He became a fighter to protect himself—a raging bully just trying to survive. That anger and trauma followed him into adulthood and into his relationships. While he loved my mother, he didn’t know how to show it. Love, to him, looked like pain. So he bled on people who hadn’t cut him—because hurt was all he knew.

His soil was poisoned. There was no water, no nourishment. And from that soil, what could grow? Damaged seeds.