Where the Light Touches: What Trees Can Teach Us About Choosing Growth

On a quiet walk through the forest, something ancient whispered itself into awareness.

I found myself watching the trees that lined the edge of a stream. They reached, as trees do, towards the light—but not evenly, not randomly. The branches only grew where the light was most abundant: over the water, toward the sky. On the side facing the dense shade of the forest, they were bare. It struck me then—how instinctively these trees knew not to pour energy into what would not sustain them.

They didn’t moralize it. They didn’t second-guess. They didn’t try to "be fair" to the dark side. They simply aligned themselves with nourishment.

This is nature’s quiet wisdom: a deep orientation toward what gives life.

But we humans are a more tangled forest. We often extend ourselves into spaces that don’t feed us—relationships that wear us down, jobs that leave us numb, habits that flatten our spirit. Sometimes, without noticing, we find that we are reaching and reaching, and still feeling starved.

Why do we keep investing in what doesn't nourish us?

We tell ourselves stories: I don’t have a choice. I don’t know what else to do. This is just how it is. And yet, there’s a deeper voice within us—quieter, but clear—that remembers what vitality feels like. A kind of inner compass that, like the trees, knows where the light comes from.

We do have choices.Even when circumstances feel fixed, there are always small pivots we can make—subtle turnings toward something more whole. These choices might not always be easy or instant, but they exist. Every day we make decisions—what to say yes to, what to decline, where to place our attention. These are the branches we grow.

And we do know what feeds us, even if we’ve forgotten how to listen.

Think of a time when you felt most alive—most peaceful, most yourself. Was it walking alone near the sea, where the wind cleared your thoughts? Was it in deep laughter with a friend who truly saw you? Was it in focused work that stirred your creativity, or in an hour of stillness that softened your heart?

There’s a thread running through those moments—a handful of core elements that made them nourishing. Maybe it was spaciousness. Or intimacy. Or challenge. Or beauty. Or silence.

Whatever those core nutrients are, you can start turning toward them again. You can build a life—slowly, honestly—around what sustains your soul.

It may also require turning away.

Not all people or patterns can come with you into the light. Some things will ask for your energy and offer nothing in return. Some dynamics drain not because anyone is cruel or broken, but because they no longer align with your growth.

Letting go is not a failure of compassion—it’s an act of reverence for life.

Even nature prunes. The tree does not grieve the limb that could not reach the sun. It lets it go, without drama or blame, and sends its strength where it matters most.

So what might change if you began to orient your life like that? Not based on obligation or fear, but on nourishment?

This isn’t a call to perfection, but to attunement. A slow returning to your own ecosystem of vitality.

Reach toward where the light is. Let yourself be fed. Let yourself grow in the direction of life.