On choosing life
Lessons from a tree about stripping away our delusions.
Note: The first half of this essay was drafted in August 2023 and finished in October.
My friend asked me the other day how I was doing. Not in a casual, don’t really care about your answer way but in a genuine, but how are you doing? way. The autopilot in my fingers kicked in to type that I was doing OK. But then I paused. I wasn’t actually OK, and haven’t been OK. So I told her the truth—that I am struggling. That I’ve been experiencing so much rage and grief. That I’m trying to hold space for it all, process as much as I’m able to, while also living life with a baby.
That weekend, my family and I went camping on the coast of Washington. My partner told me about a tree, the tree of life, that sits along the coast. It was a sight to see, as evidenced by the many campers flocking to it. So he took me to see it—and I immediately started crying.
Before me I saw a tree, roots exposed by erosion. Underneath, there was no longer ground for it to root into, so it had extended its root network to dig itself into the cliff on either side of it. It was hanging on to life, reaching for solid ground after what was under it had been swept away by the ocean.
At first, the tree reminded me of the resilience of nature. Battered and washed over by ocean waves, erosion, human interference—and yet, the tree found a way to remain, refusing to become another drift log washing up on a shore away from home. It found a way to hold on, to keep living. I wept at its resilience, and what felt like a heart lesson that all of us are just trying to hold onto life, and if we get creative, we can, even under the weight of the ocean.
And yet, this tree also made me sad, and angry. Rather than seeing its roots holding the cliffs as resilient, I sensed its desperation. Having had the ground ripped from its core, it grasped desperately at its surroundings, clawing and clinging to the earth to stay up, to stay alive. Was it resilient, or was it desperate for help? For someone to put something underneath it so that it may have a steady foundation again? Screams for help falling on ears of people who, instead of listening, are taking pictures for Instagram.
Perhaps I wept because this tree was a mirror, a mirror I’ve been avoiding. People on the outside look at mothers and think, “wow, you juggle so much. You’re stretched so thin. You’re so exhausted. And yet, here you are, still standing, getting from one day to the next. You’re so strong, so resilient.” When really, if they looked just a little closer, they’d see a mother who has been abandoned by society, washed over by wave after wave of exhaustion, chores, being needed, and is desperate for someone to just see that she is struggling.
Untitled. Digital collage, Oct. 2023.
The same could be said for the Palestinians. The whole world looks on, with all of the history and context and access to information—and yet, we choose not to see their struggle. We choose not to see how desperately they are fighting for life. How desperately they, like all of us, just want to live with dignity.
With everything happening in the world, maybe it’s not the right time to admit to myself and the Internet that I have postpartum depression. Or, maybe it is. Maybe it’s the perfect time to scream and yell and violently rip the fucking sheet off everyone’s face who refuses to see struggle because it’s inconvenient, because it’s not pretty, because it threatens their own beliefs about how the world works, because they can’t bear to be honest about the ugliness within themselves.
That tree is burned into my brain, not as a martyr, but as a protest; as a searing reminder that we are all of us, all over the world, holding on for dear life. And when we strip back the sheets over our eyes made of bias, shock, polarization, disbelief, distraction, and delusion, we might be able to see human beings as human beings, trying desperately to choose life.
For ways to support Palestinians in their fight for life, you can find resources here.