Things I Am Learning From Trees

Recently, in our TEND Reading Circle, we discussed the book The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben. We began by talking about trees, but as often happens in these conversations, we quickly found ourselves talking about people.

The book challenges many of our assumptions about what strength looks like in nature. Trees are often portrayed as solitary beings: rugged, independent, standing alone against the elements. But beneath the forest floor, another story is unfolding.

Trees communicate. They share resources. They support weaker members of the community. They grow in relationship. The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether many of the things we call success in modern life are actually forms of separation.

Opting out, for me, has never been about withdrawing from the world. It has been about stepping away from stories that no longer feel true. Trees have been offering some alternative stories.

We tend to celebrate what can be measured: more followers, income, output, or progress. Trees seem remarkably unconcerned with any of this. For much of the year, their most important activity is hidden from view. Roots deepen, nutrients are exchanged. networks strengthen. From the outside, it may appear that nothing is happening.

I often need this reminder Some seasons of life are not about expansion. Some are about integration. About strengthening foundations. About becoming more deeply rooted in what matters. The culture around us tends to value visible growth. Trees suggest that invisible growth matters too.

One of the most fascinating ideas in the book is that healthy forests function as communities. Older trees support younger ones. Resources move through underground fungal networks. The wellbeing of the individual is tied to the wellbeing of the whole.

This feels like a radical message in a culture that prizes self-sufficiency. We are encouraged to optimise ourselves, build our personal brands, become resilient enough not to need anyone. But perhaps resilience was never meant to be a solo project.

Perhaps one of the things worth opting out of is the myth that we should be able to do everything alone. I notice how often I reach for self-improvement when what I actually need is connection: a conversation, a friend, a community, someone to sit beside me in uncertainty. Trees remind me that support is not weakness, it is how ecosystems thrive.

Trees operate on timescales that make most human goals seem frantic. Spring is not rushed. Trees do not panic when winter arrives; they do not compare their unfolding to the oak down the path. A tree that grows too quickly can become weak. Fast growth often produces softer wood, making it more vulnerable to disease and damage.

I find myself wondering how often the same is true for us. What if the pressure to hurry is making us fragile? What if some things can only emerge through patience? Opting out can sometimes look like moving at the speed of trust rather than the speed of urgency.

One of the gifts of spending time with trees is remembering that life unfolds in cycles.

There are seasons of flowering, seasons of fruiting, seasons of shedding, seasons of apparent dormancy. Yet somehow we have created a culture that expects perpetual summer. We are supposed to be productive, available, inspired, growing and achieving all year round. Trees offer another possibility: that rest is not separate from growth, dormancy is not failure. Periods that appear quiet may actually be doing essential work.

I suspect many of us are carrying a deep exhaustion that comes from trying to live outside the rhythms we belong to.

Perhaps this is the lesson that stays with me most: a tree does not earn its place in the forest, it belongs simply because it is part of the forest.

Many of us spend enormous amounts of energy trying to prove our worth, through achievement, usefulness, and productivity. Trees seem to have opted out of this arrangement entirely. They simply participate in life. They receive sunlight, offer shade. They take up space. They contribute to the ecosystem through their very existence.

What if belonging was less about proving and more about participating? What if we already belong?

The older I get, the less interested I am in learning how to be more productive and the more I am concerned with learning how to be more alive.

Trees won't tell us how to optimise our lives. They offer something quieter: a reminder that growth can be slow, that support matters, that rest has a place, that belonging is our birthright.

Perhaps opting out is not about rejecting the world, but more about remembering that we are part of a living world, and allowing its wisdom to shape us once again. The trees have been practising this for a very long time.

Before you continue with your day, perhaps pause for a moment. Notice the nearest tree you can see, or bring one to mind.

Consider: What is this tree teaching me about how to live?

There is no need to search for an answer, simply listen. The trees have been in conversation with the earth, the seasons, and one another for far longer than we have. Perhaps they still have something to say.

One of the themes that kept returning during our discussion of The Hidden Life of Trees was this: nothing thrives in isolation. The forest is not a collection of individuals striving alone, it is a community, a network of relationships, a place where growth happens through connection, support, and belonging.

TEND was created from a similar longing. In a culture that often asks us to move faster, achieve more, and constantly improve ourselves, TEND offers a different invitation - not to optimise, not to perform, not to become someone else.

Instead, we gather to slow down, pay attention, and explore what it means to live in greater relationship - with ourselves, with one another, and with the living world around us.

Through reading circles, seasonal wisdom gatherings, yin yoga, meditation, and reflective practices, we create spaces for curiosity rather than certainty, presence rather than productivity, and connection rather than comparison.

You don't need to arrive with the right answers, you don't need to be an expert, a spiritual seeker, or a self-improvement project. You only need a willingness to pause, listen, and explore the questions that matter.

If this article resonated with you, perhaps you'd like to join us.

There is always a place for you in the forest.