I walked outside this morning to find my Whirling Butterflies in full bloom.

They are absolutely gorgeous – covered in delicate white and pink flowers, lush green leaves, and full of new growth. If you saw them today, you would think they were thriving.

And they are.

But I know what they’ve been through.

Earlier this summer, these plants became infested with flea beetles. The beetles chewed through their leaves and damaged their stems when they were first planted and becoming established.

For weeks, I tended to them. Twice a day, I painstakingly picked beetles and larvae off the plants. (I affectionately called this “battle beetle!”) Eventually their numbers dwindled. New leaves appeared. Then buds. And finally, flowers.

The plants recovered beautifully!

But here is the interesting part. All that gorgeous new growth has become too heavy for the stems that were damaged earlier in the season. The tops are now healthy and full of life, but the weakened stems at the bottom simply can’t support their weight. Many have already snapped. Earlier this week I had to prop up each plant to prevent them all from breaking.

Standing here looking at my Whirling Butterflies this morning, I couldn’t help but see myself.

Our Foundations Shape Us

I grew up in a home that often didn’t feel safe. My father was abusive and unpredictable and from a young age my nervous system learned to stay alert – to listen, watch, anticipate, and be prepared.

That hypervigilance made sense then. My body was responding to the environment around me.

Now, those circumstances are long behind me and I have a life that I love. I feel happy, healthy, strong – and mostly calm and peaceful.

Like my Whirling Butterflies, I am thriving.

And yet, just like my plants, I recognize that parts of my foundation were shaped during my early years. And my body sometimes needs more tending and support because of the conditions in which my nervous system first learned how to navigate the world.

Removing the Threat Isn’t the End of the Story

Once I finally got rid of the flea beetles, my Whirling Butterflies were safe from harm. But the damage to their early stems didn’t disappear simply because the beetles did.

Our bodies work this way too.

We can leave the difficult home. Recover from the illness. Get through the divorce. Move away from the bully. Find financial stability. Build healthy relationships. Create a peaceful home.

In all these situations, the threat can be gone and yet our bodies still carry some of what they learned during that time.

If an environment taught us to be watchful, guarded, quiet, controlling, accommodating, or ready for something to go wrong, those responses can become deeply familiar. They may have helped us once. Years later, we may have to gently teach our bodies that our environment has changed.

Like my plants, we all arrive where we are after growing under different conditions.

Sometimes Growth Reveals the Places That Need Support

As I’ve watched my Whirling Butterflies recover, I’ve observed something else.

When they were smaller, their damaged stems could support them. It’s only now, when they’re bursting with new leaves and flowers, that those weakened places have become apparent. There is simply more for their stems to hold.

I think life can be like that too.

Sometimes it’s not another hardship that exposes our tender places. Sometimes it’s growth. A full career. Raising children. Relationships. Travel. Moving. Responsibilities. Opportunities. Even wonderful things can create more for us to hold.

We can be doing incredibly well and still discover the places that need some extra support.

When I saw my plants splayed open on the ground, I didn’t get frustrated with them and think: After everything I’ve done for you, shouldn’t you be strong enough to stand on your own by now?

I simply found something to support them.

And I’ve been thinking about how differently we can treat ourselves. We often have an expectation that if we’ve done enough work, we shouldn’t need support anymore.

But what if needing support isn’t evidence that we haven’t healed?

I can’t look at the damaged stems and demand that they be different. I can’t tell them that the beetles are gone now, so they should be able to hold everything on their own. And I certainly can’t will them into having had a different beginning.

I can only understand what happened – and respond to what they need today.

Perhaps we can offer ourselves that same grace.

Our histories matter. They help explain some of the ways our minds and bodies learned to respond to the world. But they don’t tell us what we’re capable of becoming.

Because those damaged stems are not the whole plant. There are strong roots underneath them. There are new leaves. There are dozens of tiny flowers whirling above them. There are more seasons ahead.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like for us too. Understanding our own past enough to recognize what we need now – and giving ourselves permission to provide it.

Maybe you recognize some of this in your own life too. What experiences have shaped you? What supports have you found that help you continue to grow and thrive? And more importantly, can you allow yourself to receive them?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. If this resonates with you, feel free to share in the comments below.