When Pine Trees Become a Metaphor for Life

Summer storms are a total vibe. The tall, dark strangers of the weather world are mysterious and alluring; captivating and dangerous. You can feel them before you see them. The atmosphere shifts and the air thickens with moisture and electricity. When they finally arrive, you simply cannot look away. And as exciting and intoxicating as it is to witness their power and be in their presence, you don't want to get too close or you might get hurt.

Wait…are we still talking about the weather here? 😂

We've already had several significant storms roll through this summer, and while we've been spared from damage, I was talking to a friend the other day who wasn't as lucky. She told me about a very scary near-miss involving a large branch from one of the tall pines in her yard that crashed down a mere foot from her home.

When another broke off, bringing a power line down with it, she decided it was time to consult an arborist before the next major weather event felled an entire pine tree onto her home.

According to the tree expert, her biggest worry was actually misdirected. While she imagined total collapse – the whole tree, roots and all, plunging through her roof, crushing her car, or worse – the truth was actually more manageable and hopeful.

Pine trees, it turns out, have incredibly strong and powerful intertwining root systems that spread horizontally – as much as 2 to 3 times the height of the tree – keeping them firmly planted. The trees on her property were never going anywhere. More vulnerable and concerning was the top heavy part – the canopy. It expands and grows taller and wider over time until it can't manage under its own weight.

If you've been here a while, you likely know how my mind began swirling after hearing this. You also likely know I can't pass up a good nature metaphor and this one hits some high notes.

I work with clients across a whole spectrum of life transitions – from career and identity shifts to business and self-leadership. Regardless, each engagement begins with the same thing: pinpointing values.

We work on identifying all the points on their own internal compass. Whether that's integrity, family, freedom and purpose or community, trust, humor and adventure – those core values become the components of their decision-making filter and framework for navigating life.

Why is this where we start? Because values anchor us as much as the pine tree's root system. They keep us grounded and solid footed when life's storms come blowing in.

Pretty straightforward analogy, I know. Not terribly mind blowing.

Here's the part that isn't so obvious.

Because when things start to shake – a career pivot, a breakup, an empty nest, a "who even am I now" identity gut-check – our first instinct usually isn't to lean into, or protect our values. It's to blame them. To wonder if we ever really believed the things we said we did. If the foundation was cracked from the start. If this is just proof we got it wrong all along.

That's the same misdirected fear my friend had – worrying that the roots wouldn't hold, when in fact the real issue was in the canopy.

Our canopy, to keep with the metaphor? That's the stuff we built on top of our roots – the roles, the titles, the identities, the versions of ourselves we grew over years because they made sense at the time, or because they got us somewhere, or because everyone could see them and that felt like proof we were doing it right. 

None of that is bad. It's the nature of growth. 

But growth doesn't always know when to stop on its own. It just keeps reaching – taller, wider, more – until one day it's not supporting you anymore. It's just weight.

And here's the thing my friend didn't see coming, and if I'm honest, most of us don't either: when life gets stormy, we assume the danger is structural. We assume it means something's wrong at the root. So we panic about the wrong thing – we brace for total collapse. 

What's actually asking for our attention is smaller, and stranger to admit: what have I let grow too big up here that I've mistaken for load-bearing?

That's the harder question. Not "what do I believe in" – you probably already know that. It's "what have I been carrying around, calling it identity, that's actually just... overgrowth?" 

The trickiest part? You usually can't tell the difference from the inside. Overgrowth doesn't feel like excess while you're growing it. It feels like commitment. Like proof. Like "look how far I've come." It's only in hindsight – or in a storm – that you can see which parts were actually holding you up, and which parts were just a lot of green, reaching for more sun than you had roots to support.

So maybe a helpful question to ask ourselves is this: if a storm came through today – the kind that makes you reevaluate everything – what would still be standing, and what would you realize you'd been holding onto out of habit, not necessity?

And let's be clear – letting it go isn't failure. Pine trees don't die when a storm takes the top. They regrow – often stronger, because a lighter canopy is an easier one to hold.

All nature metaphors aside, I've always done this – looked at trees and seen something closer to us than to wood and leaves – something so human-like and alive. So, when my friend told me, so matter-of-factly, what her arborist said – the roots aren't the risk, it's the canopy – I couldn't hear it as just a fact about pine trees. I heard it as something closer to a warning, or a permission slip, depending on the day.

So if a storm's rolling through your life right now – the pivot, the awakening, the poorly-timed unraveling you haven't said out loud yet – maybe the scary thought isn't “let's chop the whole thing down.” 

Maybe it's smaller, and a little more hopeful: what needs to be trimmed away so you can flourish. 

No pressure. Just possibility.