Tenishia Vanderpool

Growth doesn't start in the spotlight - it begins in the soil. 

When you’re starting a garden and you want it to grow, what’s one of the first things you do?
You prepare the ground for roots.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately—about how much of my life has been shaped not by the big dramatic milestones, but by the tending I’ve had to do beneath the surface. The quiet work. The uncomfortable digging. The moments where I had to slow down and honestly ask myself:

“Is my soil even healthy enough for what I’m trying to grow?”

When we first got to Washington, we spent a couple of weeks in an Airbnb, then another week and a half in a hotel down the street from the house we’d eventually move into. When it finally came time to settle in, we were literally buying air mattresses because we were starting over from scratch. No furniture. No familiarity. Just us, a few bags, and a whole lot of unknown.

We were gifted a bunch of houseplants and gardening supplies, so I decided to fill my spare time with gardening. I had an entire plant room and all the excitement in the world…
in the middle of December…
in a completely new climate…
acting like I knew what I was doing.

As you can probably guess, things didn’t go as planned. Winter isn’t exactly the season for new beginnings in the garden, and I was not impressed with my results. But as I sifted through the soil and pulled up old roots, rocks, and whatever else had been buried for who knows how long, it hit me:

A lot of my life looks like this right now.

There are seasons where life feels like blooming… and then there are seasons where you’re just kneeling in the dirt, trying to make sense of what’s underneath.

This year has been one of those “underneath” years for me—a year of uprooting old beliefs, examining what actually nourishes me, and noticing where I’ve been growing out of habit instead of intention.

So fast forward a few months to spring!

I tried again—with the same seeds, the same hands, the same curiosity—but this time the conditions were right.
I had prepared the soil.
I had learned from last time.
I knew what not to do.
I adjusted my plan.

And my plants? They’re still thriving. Because I created conditions that were ideal for roots to take hold.

Roots are where things begin.
A plant with strong roots is far more likely to thrive than one with roots that are dry, waterlogged, or struggling to hang on.

I’ve had seasons where I looked like I was growing beautifully on the outside, but underneath?
My roots were tired.
Tangled.
Stretched too thin.

Roots are the foundation.
And just like a house built on steady ground can weather a storm, I’m learning that a life built with strong roots—on purpose, on honesty, on authenticity—can hold you through the seasons that test you, stretch you, and shape you.

And here’s the part I’ve felt deeply this year: a single root cannot survive on its own. It needs a system.
My own “root system” has been a mix of family, support, community, neurodiversity, spirituality, my personal values, and the people who remind me who I am when I forget. Without that nourishment, I can’t absorb what I need or hold onto what matters.

So I invite you to pause and ask yourself:
✨ What are you rooted in?
✨ What anchors you to who you are?
✨ What are you absorbing — and is it nourishing or draining you?
✨ What are you storing — lessons that help you grow or pain that keeps you stuck?

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be laying The Groundwork — sharing the values that anchor me, the experiences that shaped me, and the ways each season of my life has influenced the way I grow.

This November, I’m choosing to look closely at my own roots.
To check the health of my soil.
To ask whether my practices, values, and ways of being are truly grounded — or just familiar.

I hope you’ll follow along, reflect, and maybe even ask yourself with me:
What are you rooted in?