Toward the Light: Lessons on Growth, Limits, and Becoming

Guest Musing Written by Katie McNamee.

No AI was used in the writing, editing, or creative process of this blog.

Katie McNamee is an agented author, two-time entrepreneur, and passionate advocate for those with chronic illnesses and disabilities.

She has two novels currently on submission, and she invites you to further connect with her on social media or by subscribing to her newsletter. You can also click these links to learn more about her businesses, Elevate Online and LEAP!

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My monstera plant was a gift. A beloved single strand with a few leaves in a pretty pot. And as it grew, I had big dreams that it would one day fill out the new trellis I bought for it with full, wide leaves.

In my head, the plant stopped there, on the edge of the trellis—just getting bigger, I guess.

My monstera plant, however, has had other plans. It dreams of reaching the moon. Or it’s possible I’m thinking too small.

I think it’s headed straight for the sun.

But unfortunately for my high-achieving plant, it has recently run into a limiting factor. Not the end of the trellis or a lack of hydration (despite my somewhat sporadic watering schedule).

It has finally hit the ceiling and is starting to fall.

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AM I LIKE A PLANT?

I feel a strange sense of sympathy whenever I look at my plant and see it brushing against the ceiling, then I remind myself that not that long ago, we lived in a different house with less light and significantly less room for growth.

Before I had the trellis, I bought the plant one small metal rod with a loop. For a while it worked well enough, but pretty soon, the plant strained to get the dim light from the cabin’s window, and grew so long it flopped over. I had to cut it and use a bigger pot and a trellis.

And while both certainly helped, it wasn’t until we moved and its environment shifted that the radical growth began.

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REMINDERS OF GROWTH

Seeing it now, touching the ceiling, I’m conflicted. Part of me thinks it’s time to prune it and propagate it.

But another part of me is proud of how it’s grown from one single strand in a much smaller pot to a room-dominating force that will soon be crawling across windowsills and off to who-knows-where if I keep my pruners at bay.

Its growth is a reminder of my own journey over the past three years—a paht my leafy green giant and I walked together.

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CRUMBLING TRELLISES & DISTANT LIGHT

Two years ago, it felt like the trellis for my soul was weaker than that flimsy metal rod and the light in my environment was far too dim for me to bloom.

My body has long been my ultimate limiting factor, a trellis that is strong yet worn and ever-changing, growing smaller and larger between one morning and the next, sometimes rusted or rotted, no matter what care I give.

At twelve years old, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, a chronic, lifelong inflammatory bowel disease that also causes a whole host of issues beyond the gut. Twenty years later, I feel blessed by the life I’ve been able to live thanks to medical interventions and treatments while also keenly aware of the challenges of navigating my days with a chronic illness that can cause fatigue and pain and exacerbate depression and anxiety, even while I’m in clinical remission.

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WITHERING AWAY

During my challenging health period two years ago, I started collecting more doctors (somehow) and dealt with additional aches and pains from sinus infections that plagued me for eighteen months no matter how many medications and alternative treatments doctors threw my way. The infections kept my cheekbones full and aching, my head fuzzy, and my overall wellbeing low.

It felt like I was withering all the way to my core, lying flat on the dirt, my trellis bent beneath me, the window shade drawn shut.

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GETTING TO THE ROOT

I had been persevering through health issues for so long and felt like nothing I could do would fix it. I had grown used to gritting my teeth and carrying on, pushing past the limits of my body, but that had a cost.

My life only started to change when I fully stopped to recognize the depth of the challenging place I was in, acknowledging my broken trellis instead of fighting against it. So I sat and listened to understand the limitations of my body and my environment.

As time began to pass, I rested when my body asked for rest. I said no to events when I was unwell instead of pushing through. I slowed down, listened to my body, and let myself cry to release the stress and pain and frustration that had been stored within me for years.

PIECING IT ALL BACK TOGETHER

It wasn’t one moment that changed everything for me. Nobody bought me the perfect new trellis to grow on or repotted me in a different soil. It took dozens upon dozens of acts of choosing my health, of choosing release, of restoring my roots and watering my soul, and relying, sometimes, on others to help me carry forward and let the light in through the window.

And, unlike my plant who is reliant on me to provide its trellis and environment, I began to piece my own back together.

Through stopping and listening, my body had more energy. My trellis grew, bit by bit. It might not have been as grand as I wanted, for my body might never give me all the energy and wellbeing that I’d like. Still, I began to understand the shape of it and respect it more.

And over time, new growth came forward slowly. An intentional shift in the balance of my business and my writing. Honest conversations about my capacity with colleagues. And a decision to move toward the light.

A NEW ENVIRONMENT

One year ago, with the help of my husband, we repotted ourselves somewhere brighter, and the growth really increased. Our new home offered more connection to the community, better places to walk and be active, and a living space that wasn’t constantly throwing something new at us (the log cabin is a story for another time).

In a new environment, with a trellis I was learning to better understand, the ability to be at peace came easier—and my monstera experienced a boom too, as you’ve seen.

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WHAT MY MONSTERA TAUGHT ME

Reflecting on this plant’s journey really reminds me of key lessons from this challenging period I went through.

How our environment can impact our growth—whether that’s our physical location and the opportunities it affords us, the people we surround ourselves with, or the basic needs we have and whether those are being met or not.

How our emotional and spiritual roots and physical foundation impact the growth we can produce. Sometimes it takes a season of revisiting those fundamentals, of sitting and tending to our needs, to have the next season of healthy production.

We all have the ability to dream and grow beyond what we think we can reach, especially with tender care and an acknowledgment of the foundations we’re building our life upon. Sometimes, we can even reach beyond our trellis.

The walls that keep us in might also help us grow.

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WILD & ROOTED GROWTH

I really enjoy this silly plant as it is, floppy and widespread—especially since it didn’t grow as I anticipated. And similarly, I want to allow myself to expand in ways I might not predict and see where the journey takes me.

To do that will mean continuing to do something that seems counterintuitive but helped me during that challenging health period: better understanding my limitations.

By sitting with my limitations—the energy I have, the brain space I’m in, or time (always time)—I find, like my plant hitting the ceiling or bending from over-growth, I can discover what I need to keep going and growing. Who knows what direction that might take me in, like:

● A change in my environment

● A shift in my supporting structures / trellis

● Or maybe, most often for me, to simply be with whatever pain, fear, or hesitation raises its voice. To acknowledge it, love on it, and in doing so, step into a freer, more untamed, and ultimately loved and listened to version of myself.

Because even though there might be ceilings, there are windows and doors and outdoor patios, lush forests, and crystal skies and a thousand opportunities waiting for you to find your way to when you pause to listen, reflect, and find the support you need.

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MY WISH FOR YOU  

So whether you feel as if your trellis is crumbling or if you’re joyously reaching for the moon with all the energy in your cells, I hope you can discover what it is you need to keep going and what your current limitations might be telling you about your next opportunity for growth.

And I hope that, in doing so, you give yourself seasons of great tenderness, where you notice the soil and air and water, and feel how they are all enough.

May you treat your trellis with care, and if you ever find yourself wilted and wondering what new goodness could possibly lie ahead, may you remember your roots, listen to the whisper of love that is here for you, and find the courage to ask for a helping hand to guide you to the nearest source of light.

May your growth be wild and free—all the way to the moon or the sun beyond.

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