Living in Seasons: What Nature Teaches Us About Self-Care, Patience, and Growth

In the quiet moments on the farm, I’ve learned that growth isn’t a race. Through a fig tree’s patient rhythm, nature has taught me how to live—and care—for myself differently.

Nature doesn’t rush. It knows when to pause. When to rest. When to root deeply in stillness before reaching again for the sun. We forget that we, too, are part of this rhythm.

What I Learned From a Fig Tree

Last summer, in August, I was walking through the garden just before entering the farm. I passed a fig tree I had seen many times before, but that day, something made me stop. It stood tall and steady—broad leaves reaching gently toward the sky, a strong wooden stem, and green figs tucked between its branches like quiet promises. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it was full of silent life.

I stood still, quietly captivated. My thoughts drifted: How does it stand so tall? How do all its parts work in harmony to bring something so simple, so nourishing, into being? Living close to the land, I work with plants every day. Over the past few years, I’ve developed a connection with them—and through them, a deeper understanding of myself.

As I gazed at the tree, I traced its anatomy in my mind: the wide leaves, the sturdy stem, the roots stretching deep into the earth—unseen, yet anchoring it against the wind. It wasn’t rigid, but it didn’t waver either. It swayed gently with the breeze—not against it. There was a quiet strength in its posture: grounded, still, unshaken. Maybe a reminder to surrender with grace. To trust the process. In that moment, I saw more than a tree. I saw a metaphor. For growth. For resilience. For cycles.

By Winter, It Had Changed.

A few months later, in January, I walked past the same tree. It looked lifeless—bare branches stretched into the pale sky, no fruit, no leaves, no signs of life.

But I knew better. I knew its roots were still there—holding it up, working in silence. Though it stood bare, it stood tall. What seemed lifeless above was still deeply alive below.

That fig tree hadn’t withered. It had simply entered a new season—a season of stillness. It may have looked barren and empty, but it was in a state of conservation. Of quiet faith. It wasn’t broken or dead. It was resting. Trusting that spring would return, that new leaves would bloom again.

But did the fig tree know that? Or was it, in its silence, also holding the question: is this the end?

At that time, I was moving through a shift of my own. My own season had changed. And I remember feeling as though the fig tree was speaking to me—reminding me to stay rooted. To hold my head high even when things felt bare. To trust that something was unfolding beneath the surface, even if I couldn’t yet see it.

Nature Moves in Cycles - So Do We

Nature moves in rhythm, not in straight lines. The seasons shift, the tides ebb and flow, the sun rises and sets—all unfolding in cycles, not steps. And so do we. There’s something sacred in the turning of the year. Winter draws us inward, asking us to rest and reflect. Spring stirs us awake with new beginnings. Summer urges us to open, to bloom, to be seen. Autumn teaches us to shed, to release, to let go. Just like the fig tree, we move through our own seasons—each one with its quiet wisdom, each one essential to our becoming.

And yet, even in the seasons of stillness, life is never truly paused. Beneath the surface, something is always moving, always becoming. The fig tree doesn’t bloom year-round—and yet it is never behind. It leans into each season fully, without resistance. We, too, need our winters. The quiet, inward-facing moments. The ones that feel empty but are, in truth, deeply full. Even when we feel unseen, our roots are growing. And when the time is right, we rise again—stronger, softer, ready to bear fruit.

To live cyclically is to live gently—with grace.

Patience: Growth Takes Time

One thing I’ve learned from working with plants is this: no matter how much care you give them— watering, pruning, nurturing every need—they will never rush. From the moment a seed is sown, it follows its own quiet rhythm. First, it waits. Then it breaks dormancy. Slowly, it sends up its first true leaves. Then stem. Then fruit.

You can offer the right conditions, but you can’t force the pace. Growth arrives when it’s ready. They stretch gently toward the sun, take in water drop by drop, and bloom only when the time is right. A seed doesn’t question how long it has remained buried. It simply trusts that the darkness will one day give way to light.

The fig tree reminded me of this. In summer, it was abundant with fruit. In winter, it stood still, stripped of leaves. But even then—it was becoming.

We’re asked to do the same. To stop measuring our worth by what the world can see. To embrace the slow, unfolding processes of healing, creativity, and transformation.

Because true growth—the kind that roots us, strengthens us, and lasts—is never rushed.

Self-Care: Nourish the Roots First 

Plants thrive when their roots are strong. Not because their leaves shine, but because what’s happening below the surface is nurtured.

We’re not so different.

True self-care means tending to the unseen:

• Checking in with ourselves
• Setting boundaries
• Resting deeply
• Speaking kindly
• Creating stillness

Skincare, too, can become part of this rhythm. A ritual of presence. A way to ground ourselves in the body and say, “I see you. I’ll take care of you.” It’s not about fixing. It’s about listening. Nourishing. Being.

Your glow comes from your grounding.

A Final Whisper

Here’s what the fig tree taught me:

Stand tall in stillness. Let go with grace. Rest without guilt. And always, trust your roots. Even in the quiet seasons, you are becoming.

Just like the fig tree, you may not bloom all year—but you are always alive with purpose. Growth doesn’t always show on the surface. It happens slowly, deeply, where the world can’t see.

So nourish your inner soil. Tend to what lies beneath—your boundaries, your stillness, your breath. Let self-care become your ritual of presence. Not a performance, but a quiet promise to your becoming. And when the time is right, you’ll rise.

Softly, steadily.

In your own rhythm. In your own time.

And like the fig tree—you will bloom.

About the author: Zeina Salama s a designer-turned-farmer and co-founder of Egypt’s first pesticide-free, climate-positive hydroponic farm. By day, she grows vegetables; by night, she fills notebooks with reflections and stories. For her, both farming and writing are slow, intentional practices—nurturing patience, presence, and the quiet beauty of small beginnings.