The Reach of an Oak

Finding hope, clarity, and purpose in what we carry forward

I came across something the other night while trying to stay awake between feedings for three newborn puppies.

Their arrival had involved an emergency C-section, and helping their mama care for them had turned my nights into a rotation of feeding, checking, and negotiating with my eyelids. Apparently, my eyelids had not agreed to the schedule.

Somewhere in that tired scrolling, I found a post about the things we survive and how they can shape the way we care for others.

I read it. Then I read it again.

The thought stayed with me like an echo.

It brought me back to moments in my own life when I was certain I was finished. Circumstances that rocked my world so thoroughly that I could not imagine how I would ever find my balance again.

On November 4, I will turn sixty. That is a fair amount of living, learning, and occasionally discovering that I should have paused before opening my mouth.

Across those years, I have had more than one moment when I thought, “My life is over. You are absolutely done.”

Yet here I am, able to look back and see beginnings I could not recognize at the time.

When You Are Still in the Muck

There is a difference between surviving an experience and understanding it.

When you are standing in the middle of something painful, you may have very little clarity. You are trying to get through the next conversation, the next responsibility, the next hour. The immediate hurt can fill your entire view.

Then there are the consequences that follow—the changes, the uncertainty, the effects on relationships, the things you never anticipated having to manage.

Sometimes we expect ourselves to understand all of it while we are still trying to catch our breath.

I have learned to give it room.

Pause. Step back where you can. Let it breathe.

You do not have to decide what the rest of your life will look like while the wound is fresh.

There have been times when I could see no farther than what I had lost. Later, with distance and reflection, I began to recognize what I had learned, what needed to change, and what possibilities remained.

That understanding took time. It also took a willingness to look beneath my first reaction.

What I Have Had to Learn About Myself

Some of my hardest lessons came from being hurt.

Others came from realizing I had hurt someone else.

I remember the heartbreak of knowing my choices had caused someone pain. Remembering my own sorrow does not erase theirs. It reminds me that my intentions, my emotions, and my explanations do not spare another person the consequences of what I do.

Life can come at us quickly, and we are not always in our best form when it arrives.

Words spoken from raw emotion can travel much farther than we intended. Decisions made in one overwhelmed moment can leave consequences we carry for years.

One of the most valuable things adversity has taught me is to pause before responding.

I do not always get it right. But I have learned to ask myself:

What am I actually feeling?

What do I know, and what am I assuming?

What am I hoping my words will accomplish?

Will I stand behind this response when the emotion settles?

Sometimes the wisest thing I can say is, “I need a little time before we talk about this.”

That pause gives me room to choose with greater care. It gives the better part of me a chance to participate.

The Trees I Still Remember

When I lived down South, I was fascinated by the oak trees.

Their size was extraordinary, but what held my attention was their reach. Some spread farther outward than they stood tall.

Their branches were enormous—twisted, weathered, stretching in directions that seemed almost impossible. Some were so heavy that they rested on the ground.

I would stand beneath them and wonder how a tree could carry so much.

I think about those trees differently now.

I think about the experiences we carry. The years that bend us. The weight that changes our shape. The support we need along the way.

And I think about how far our lives can reach.

An experience that once left us feeling helpless may eventually help us recognize someone else’s struggle. A mistake we have faced honestly may give us the words to help another person pause before making a similar one.

Our understanding can extend beyond us.

I cannot remove every difficult experience from someone else’s path. But sometimes I can help them recognize the terrain. I can share where I lost my footing, what helped me regain it, and what I wish I had understood sooner.

Sometimes I can simply sit beside them without requiring an explanation for why it hurts.

That, to me, is part of the reach.

The Work of Finding Value

Much of my deepest growth has come through pain.

I would not have volunteered for those lessons. Some still hurt when I remember them. Finding value afterward has required effort, discipline, and honesty with myself.

I have had to examine my reactions. Reconsider my expectations. Admit when I was wrong. Learn when to hold on and when to release something I could no longer carry well.

Through my faith, I have learned to ask God for help seeing beyond my immediate understanding.

Sometimes it feels like a small shift of a kaleidoscope within my spiritual view. The pieces of my history remain, but I begin to see a possibility I could not see before.

I can recognize that an experience was painful and still acknowledge that I gained something meaningful through working my way beyond it.

Greater discernment.

More compassion.

A clearer sense of what matters.

The courage to take a direction I might never have considered.

Some circumstances I once believed would be my undoing became turning points that helped me build a life I value deeply.

I could only recognize that by continuing forward.

Finding Your Next Foothold

If you are facing something that has shaken your life, you may have no interest in searching for a lesson today.

Begin with what you need to get through today.

Rest where you can. Talk to someone you trust. Accept practical help. Give yourself room to grieve what has changed.

When you have a little more footing, consider one question at a time:

What needs my attention now?
Separate the immediate responsibility from the fears about everything that might happen later.

What part of this is within my control?
There may be a choice, a conversation, a boundary, or a request for help available to you.

What do I understand now that I did not understand before?
Allow yourself an honest answer, even if it is uncomfortable.

What would I like to do differently going forward?
Choose something specific enough to practice.

You do not have to rebuild an entire life in one afternoon. One thoughtful decision can give you a place to begin.

And if you keep returning to the same pain without finding your footing, reaching for support can be that decision. We need places where we can be cared for, too.

There Is Still Life Ahead

The greatest lesson I have carried out of my adversities is to give myself time to feel, then keep looking for a way forward.

I have learned to sift through the layers, face what belongs to me, and seek the clearest perspective I can find.

My vulnerability has deepened my ability to help others. Reflection has given that ability better insight and direction.

I want to use what I have learned to help someone else avoid an unnecessary hurt—or find their way through a familiar one with more support and grace.

That is why those words stayed with me in the quiet between puppy feedings.

They reminded me how often I had mistaken a painful moment for the final shape of my life.

I am grateful I lived long enough beyond those moments to discover how much remained.

If you are standing in one of your own, leave room for what you cannot see yet.

Let it breathe.

Find your next foothold.

And remember those old oak trees, with their weathered branches reaching farther than I ever thought possible.

There may still be so much reach in you.

Until next time, may you find grace in the chaos, clarity for your next step, and hope for the life still unfolding.

—Tina N. Campbell
Scribed in Light

“Great oaks from little acorns grow.”
— Traditional proverb

Isaiah 61:3 — King James Version

“Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble…”
— 2 Corinthians 1:4

“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified.” —Isaiah 61:3