Welcome back to Soft Days Collective, friend.
Come on in. Kick off your shoes, take a deep breath, and settle in for a few minutes.
The Summer Solstice is almost here, and if you’re anything like me, you’ve probably been feeling that shift in energy. Summer on the North Shore is a funny thing. We wait all year for it, and then the second it arrives, we start trying to fit an entire year’s worth of adventures into three short months.
I’ve caught myself doing exactly that lately.
Between planning International Girls Weekend, looking ahead to the Fourth of July, preparing for RYLA, and trying to soak up every sunny day we get, my brain has been living a few weeks ahead of where my feet actually are.
And while all of those things are exciting, I’ve been reminding myself of something important:
I don’t want to rush through a season I’ve been waiting for.
I don’t want to spend June thinking about July and spend July thinking about August only to wake up in September wondering where summer went.
So lately, I’ve been practicing patience. Not because I’m naturally good at it. Actually, quite the opposite.
If you know me well, you know I love details. I love plans. I love information. My brain feels happiest when it knows exactly what’s happening, why it’s happening, and what comes next.
Unfortunately, life rarely provides that level of cooperation.
Life has a way of unfolding on its own timeline. And recently, one of the biggest reminders of that came from something completely unexpected.
A woodpile.
Now, before you roll your eyes and wonder where I’m going with this, stay with me.
A couple of years ago, my family had ten cords of wood delivered to our cabin.
Ten.
If you’ve never seen ten cords of wood dumped in a giant pile, it’s hard to explain just how overwhelming it looks. Imagine standing in front of a mountain of logs knowing every single piece needs to be cut, split, moved, and stacked.
It felt like a project that would never end. Weekend after weekend we’d work on it. We’d spend hours stacking wood, stepping back to admire our progress, and convincing ourselves we’d finally figured out the secret to building a sturdy pile.
Then we’d come back the next weekend. Part of it had fallen over. Every single time. At first, it was frustrating. Then it was irritating. Then it became hilarious. Honestly, after the fifth or sixth collapse, all you can really do is laugh.
There was no dramatic solution. No magical stacking technique. No moment where we suddenly became master wood stackers. We just kept rebuilding. Over and over.
And somewhere along the way, I realized the woodpile was teaching me something. Actually, it was teaching me a lot.
Every time it fell, we had a choice. We could stand there and complain about how unfair it was. We could decide we weren’t good at stacking wood. We could get frustrated and walk away. Or we could pick up the logs and try again.
Most of the time, growth looks a lot more like the last option than we’d like to admit.
I think we often imagine personal growth as one big breakthrough moment. We think we’ll read the right book, hear the right advice, or have some life-changing realization that suddenly makes everything easier.
But real growth is usually much quieter than that. It’s showing up again after things don’t go according to plan. It’s adjusting. Learning. Trying a different approach. Trusting that every failed attempt is still teaching you something.
The woodpile didn’t fall because we were failures. It fell because we were learning.
And isn’t that true for so many things in life?
The goal you haven’t reached yet.
The habit you’re trying to build.
The boundaries you’re learning to set.
The confidence you’re working to grow.
The dream that’s taking longer than expected.
Sometimes we see setbacks as proof that we aren’t making progress. What if they’re actually proof that we’re in the middle of learning?Because here’s the thing no one talks about enough:
Resilience isn’t getting it right the first time.
Resilience is continuing after the fifth, sixth, or tenth time things don’t go as planned.
It’s trusting that every time you begin again, you’re bringing a little more wisdom with you.
The pile may have fallen, but we weren’t starting from scratch. We knew more than we did before. We were stronger than we were before. We had learned something. And that’s how growth works too.
Not all growth looks like moving forward. Sometimes growth looks like rebuilding. Sometimes it looks like resting and trying again tomorrow.
Sometimes it looks like standing in front of a mess, laughing at the absurdity of it all, and deciding to keep going anyway.
That woodpile eventually got stacked. Not because we found the perfect system. Not because it suddenly became easy. But because we kept showing up. One log at a time.
And honestly, I think that’s the lesson I’ve been carrying with me lately.
You don’t have to have everything figured out. You don’t have to know exactly how things will unfold. You don’t need all the answers before you begin. Sometimes all you need to do is pick up the next log.
Take the next step. Trust the next season. The rest will come.
So if you’re feeling impatient right now, if you’re waiting for clarity, waiting for answers, waiting for life to finally make sense, consider this your gentle reminder:
You are allowed to be a work in progress.
You are allowed to learn as you go.
You are allowed to rebuild.
And just because something has fallen apart doesn’t mean you’ve failed. Sometimes it simply means you’re still stacking the wood.
Until next time, friend, slow down enough to notice the season you’re in. Trust that growth is happening, even when it feels slow.
And remember that resilience isn’t about never falling down.
It’s about being willing to pick up the next log and begin again.
Stay soft.