Accepting Your Past

I was walking the other day when I found a fallen oak leaf, still clinging to the branch like a stubborn child. It wasn’t trying to be anything else—it was simply there, part of the branch’s story. That’s how I wish people understood acceptance of the past: it’s not about erasing the leaf, but recognizing it as part of the whole tree.

Commonly, people think accepting the past means “moving on” like it was a mistake to be left behind. But that’s not it. It’s not about forgetting the weight of a divorce, the sting of a lost job, or the ache of a choice made too young. It’s not about pretending the roots of a broken relationship never dug deep. Nature doesn’t erase fallen leaves; it lets them become soil for new growth.

Another myth: that acceptance means “letting go” with a sigh and a clean slate. But holding the past isn’t about clinging—it’s about understanding. When I sit by my cabin’s window in the quiet hours, I don’t “let go” of my years in the parks, or the grief of my divorce. I simply see them as the weather that shaped the forest around me. The storm didn’t ruin the trees; it made them stronger in their roots.

Nature teaches us: acceptance is the slow, patient work of making space. It’s not a single act, but the quiet rhythm of the seasons—winter not rushing to spring, but preparing the ground. When we try to rush past our past, we miss the lessons it holds. We try to be someone new, but we’re still the same roots, just reaching for a different sun. Only when we stop fighting the soil beneath us can we finally grow.

That’s why it matters. To get this right isn’t about being “over it.” It’s about being with it. And in that space, we find the peace we’ve been searching for—not in the absence of the past, but in its quiet, steady presence. Like the forest, we’re not broken by what we’ve carried. We’re made whole by it.

— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land

— Roger Jackson, finally at peace with the man in the mirror