Day 209: What Grew Stronger
Not all growth breaks the surface. Sometimes it roots. Sometimes it rests. Sometimes it waits.
Scene & Symbol: The Garden After Rain
There’s a certain stillness that follows a storm. It’s not just the absence of thunder or the final retreat of rain against the roof; it’s something more internal, more cellular. The world, for a moment, feels like it’s taken a breath it didn’t know it was holding. And in that pause, if you step outside, you’ll find everything changed not dramatically, but undeniably.
The garden, especially, tells the truth of what’s just happened. The ground is saturated, soft beneath your feet, holding the memory of impact. The soil, once dry and cracked, is now dark and open, welcoming. Your toes sink into it slightly, met not with resistance but with permission. The leaves glisten not because they were designed to shine, but because they’ve endured. Water clings to the undersides of branches. Petals hang heavy. Some have fallen completely. Others droop like tired dancers after a long, honest performance.
And still there is beauty. But not the kind you photograph for a magazine spread. Not the curated kind with symmetry and shine. This beauty is unruly. Asymmetrical. Messy. This beauty bears witness. Some flowers are bent; a few are broken. Yet others, strangely, stunningly, look stronger. As if the storm reminded them of their purpose. As if the rain was not just a test, but a kind of remembering.
This is not the glamour of untouched growth. This is the grace of having been touched by wind, by pressure, by the weight of something bigger and continuing anyway. It is, in every sense of the word, resilience. And today, on Day 209, we return to this metaphor. Not because it is easy, but because it is exact.
The garden after rain doesn’t celebrate itself. It doesn’t seek validation. It just is; a living map of what endured, what yielded, what needed to fall away, and what, against the odds, bloomed anyway.
This reflection is not about dramatic transformations or clean conclusions. It’s not about the kind of courage that makes headlines or gathers likes. It’s about the courage that roots itself quietly, invisibly, underground. The kind that survives not by being seen, but by staying.
Because something has grown in you this month. Maybe it wasn’t loud. Maybe it didn’t come with clarity or applause. Maybe it bloomed slowly in the dark corners, behind the scenes. But it grew. It deepened. It held.
And now, in the soft hush after the rain, we pause to notice. Not to fix or harvest or even name everything. Just to see. Just to say: I made it through. And something inside me is stronger for it.
The Cultural Spell: Growth Must Be Visible
We live in a world that demands evidence of change. It isn’t enough to grow; we must show that growth. Preferably in high definition, with timestamps, filters, and clear narrative arcs. Our culture loves transformation, but only when it comes with a before-and-after montage. Something Instagrammable. Something provable.
Think about how we frame personal evolution: The glow-up. The makeover. The “new chapter.” We’ve turned courage into a product. We’ve mistaken performance for healing. We celebrate the brave decision only when it ends in a clean resolution: leaving the job, finishing the race, publishing the memoir. But what about the days in between? The long, unsexy middle where nothing looks different, but everything feels heavier?
There’s an unspoken pressure to produce evidence that you’re evolving. You lost the weight. You cut them off. You got the promotion. You moved to Bali. The change had a logo, a soundbite, a celebratory drink. And if it didn’t? If you just felt something shift inside you (i.e. a loosening, a softening, a boundary drawn quietly in the dark) it hardly seems to count.
But that’s not how the soul works.
The soul doesn’t move in public. It moves in shadow. It moves slowly, like water carving through stone. Soul growth rarely arrives with a bang. It rarely says, “Look at me!” It whispers. It nudges. It peels back layer after layer until one day, you respond to something differently and you realize you’re no longer who you were.
Courage isn’t always a climax. Sometimes it’s the choice to stay instead of run. Sometimes it’s letting go of a story that made you feel safe. Sometimes it’s asking for what you need even if your voice shakes. Sometimes it’s not saying anything at all.
You don’t need a plot twist to prove you’ve changed. You don’t need an audience to make it real. You don’t need permission to grow quietly.
The cultural spell says: “If it’s not public, it’s not progress.” But we say: “What happens quietly often matters most.”
There’s courage in every invisible act of self-respect. There’s power in saying no when it would be easier to say yes. There’s growth in the softness you’ve started to allow; in how you speak to yourself, how you rest, how you reclaim your own pacing. If you’ve made it through July without a single photo to post, but you’ve learned to sit with your discomfort, or to say the hard thing, or to feel your feelings instead of fleeing them; that is growth. That is courage.
And that is enough.
Truth Science: What Reflection Reveals
In a culture that prizes speed and spectacle, reflection often gets miscast as stagnation. But science paints a different picture: reflection is not indulgent, it's instrumental. It is the very act of looking back that allows us to move forward with wisdom, clarity, and courage.
Below are four major research-backed areas that show how quiet reflection fuels profound transformation.
1. Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG): The Wisdom in Wounds
Psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun coined the term Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG) in the mid-1990s to describe the positive psychological change that arises from the struggle with deeply challenging life events. Unlike resilience which is the capacity to bounce back, PTG is about bouncing forward. It’s not about returning to who you were before. It’s about becoming someone deeper, clearer, and more anchored as a result of what you endured.
Their research outlines five measurable domains of growth:
Increased appreciation for life
Improved relationships with others
New possibilities for one’s life
Greater personal strength
Spiritual or existential development
“People who endure psychological struggle following adversity can often see positive growth afterward,” wrote Tedeschi in The Posttraumatic Growth Inventory (1996).
Crucially, PTG doesn’t require one grand, life-altering trauma. Subsequent studies (e.g., Wild et al., 2020) have shown that cumulative micro-stressors, such as prolonged caregiving, job burnout, or emotional isolation, can also catalyze growth especially when reflection is part of the process. Even the quiet strain of keeping it all together (e.g. emotionally, professionally, relationally) can become a crucible for transformation, if we give ourselves the space to name what shifted.
2. Neuroplasticity: Wiring for Courage
Your brain is not static, it is plastic. The field of neuroplasticity shows that the structure and function of the brain can change based on experience, repetition, and intention. This is especially true when we engage in reflective practices such as meditation, writing, or emotional labeling. According to neuroscientist Dr. Lisa Feldman Barrett, our emotional experiences are not hardwired; they’re constructed by our brain based on the concepts we have available to us. Her work on emotional granularity (the ability to name specific emotions) suggests that:
People who can label their emotions precisely (e.g., "frustrated" vs. "angry") experience less anxiety, stronger immune responses, and better emotional regulation.
This precision builds the brain’s library of emotional intelligence, leading to better decision-making in moments of stress.
“The more words you know for your emotions, the more finely your brain can craft your responses,” Feldman Barrett writes in How Emotions Are Made (2017). When you reflect on a difficult moment, especially one where you demonstrated quiet courage and name it clearly, your brain encodes it. Over time, this rewiring creates a new default setting, helping you become braver not just in thought, but in physiology.
3. Journaling as Integration: The Power of Story
Writing down what we feel doesn’t just process experience, it consolidates it. Psychologist Dr. James Pennebaker, a pioneer in the field of expressive writing, found that:
Just 15–20 minutes of journaling for 3–4 consecutive days significantly improves immune function, reduces doctor visits, and lowers cortisol levels.
It also improves working memory, allowing the brain to better manage new tasks and experiences.
In his studies, participants who wrote about emotionally difficult experiences often reported:
Less rumination
Greater clarity about their emotions
A deeper sense of self-understanding
Why? Because writing gives narrative structure to emotional chaos. It’s the difference between feeling something and owning the story of it. Reflection turns experience into meaning. And meaning is what allows us to integrate growth into our identity. “Writing helps people bring structure and organization to their thoughts, which leads to better health outcomes,” Pennebaker noted in Opening Up by Writing It Down (2016). This is not just catharsis. It’s cognitive reappraisal. It’s healing, clarity, and identity-building, all on the page.
4. The Zeigarnik Effect: Closing the Loop
Ever feel like your brain is stuck on something, even if it’s small or seemingly insignificant? That’s the Zeigarnik Effect in action; a psychological phenomenon discovered by Russian psychologist Bluma Zeigarnik in the 1920s. She found that unfinished tasks are more likely to linger in our memory than completed ones. The mind treats emotional loops like open tabs on a browser; it keeps checking them, draining energy. Unacknowledged experiences especially emotional ones, can function like unfinished tasks. They loop. They clutter our inner space. But reflection helps close those loops. Naming what changed, what hurt, what mattered, allows the nervous system to complete the circuit. It quiets the mind.
This isn’t just metaphor, it’s measurable. Studies in cognitive behavioral therapy (e.g., Ecker & Hulley, 2012) show that reconsolidating memory through conscious reflection can:
Reduce the emotional charge of old memories
Disrupt unhelpful patterns
Create space for new interpretations and beliefs
So if you’ve felt scattered or emotionally “foggy” this month, there’s a reason. Your system might be carrying open emotional loops. Reflection, whether through journaling, conversation, or solitude, helps close them.
What This Means for You
Reflection isn't optional if you want integrated growth, it’s essential. When you give yourself even ten quiet minutes to ask, “What shifted in me this month?”, you activate:
Neurobiological learning loops
Emotional healing pathways
Identity reinforcement
Behavioral pattern rewiring
And perhaps most importantly, you give yourself credit not just for surviving, but for growing. Quietly. Deeply. Honestly. Courage doesn’t always feel like courage in the moment. But science says: if you paused, paid attention, and showed up for yourself, you changed. That matters. And your brain knows it.
Practice / Rehearsal: What Grew Stronger?
Take 15–30 minutes to respond to the following prompts. You don’t need perfect grammar. You need presence. You need honesty. You need a willingness to meet yourself at eye level.
Reflective Prompts:
What parts of me feel steadier than they did a month ago?
When did I show courage this month, even in small, quiet ways?
What challenged me most and what did I learn from it?
What surprised me about my own strength?
What will I carry forward into August?
Bonus: Letter to Self entitled “This Is What I Want to Remember.”
Start with: “Dear Me, This month, I learned that courage sometimes looks like…”
Let it be messy. Let it be real. Let it live.
Word Bank of Quiet Strengths
Need help naming what grew stronger? Try these:
Patience
Honesty
Stillness
Boundaries
Trust
Gentleness
Self-forgiveness
Asking for help
Saying no
Letting go
Naming the truth
Beginning again
A Lyric to Carry Us
From Brandi Carlile’s The Story: “All of these lines across my face / Tell you the story of who I am.”
We often hide our weathered places, our wrinkles, our wear. But these are the parts of us that speak loudest without ever needing to shout. Your courage doesn’t need to be explained to be valid. It doesn’t need to be justified to be real. It simply needs to be witnessed by you.
Closing Echo: Not All Growth Is Loud
Let this be your gentle reckoning. The garden didn’t need applause after the rain. It needed sunlight. Space. Time. You don’t need praise to prove you’re evolving. You need space to name what you’ve become.
So here it is: You’ve grown. Not perfectly. Not always visibly. But deeply. And that’s enough for today.
Call to Action
Journal your responses.
Tag someone whose quiet growth inspired you this month.
Post one word that captures your July courage: #LucivaraCourage
Come back tomorrow as we make a promise to keep going.
#LucivaraCourage #QuietPower #BrandiCarlile #TheStory #PostTraumaticGrowth #EmotionalResilience #RootedStrength
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