Five years ago, a friend brought me a tiny fig tree for my birthday.
To be honest, it barely looked like a tree at all. It was little more than a twig with a few hopeful leaves, and for years it didn’t seem to do much. Every spring I’d look at it, expecting something dramatic, and every autumn I’d wonder whether it would ever really become the beautiful tree I’d imagined. We brought a puppy who chewed one of its two branches. I wondered whether we ought to pull it out, maybe the soil was poor or the conditions weren’t quite right.
Then, this year, something changed. Almost without warning, it put on a remarkable burst of growth. New branches appeared, the leaves grew bigger than ever, and for the first time it was covered in figs. Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it’s the same little plant that had spent years looking almost completely unchanged.
It made me wonder how often we judge our own growth in the same way. We live in a world that celebrates visible progress. Promotions. Qualifications. Social media-worthy before-and-after photos. Milestones. Followers. Achievements. We often assume that if we can’t see growth, it isn’t happening.
But nature rarely works like that.
Long before a tree reaches towards the sky, it’s quietly establishing its roots beneath the surface. There are seasons when all its energy is directed where we can’t see it. From above, it can look as though nothing is happening at all. Yet underground, everything is changing.
I think people are often much the same.
Sometimes growth means learning to set boundaries and say no without feeling guilty. Sometimes it means recognising a pattern of behaviour you’ve repeated for years. Sometimes it’s sitting with an uncomfortable emotion rather than trying to escape it. Sometimes it’s simply getting through a difficult week, step by step, when a year ago it might have completely overwhelmed you.
None of those things are particularly visible to the outside world. Many aren’t even obvious to us at the time.
As I prepare to begin my degree in Humanistic Counselling, I’ve found myself reflecting on this more than ever. Looking back over the last few years, there are moments that felt insignificant at the time: conversations that challenged me, books that shifted my perspective, times when I questioned myself, periods when I felt stuck or uncertain and questioned what I thought I had been sure of.
At the time, none of these experiences felt like growth. Now I can see they were laying foundations.
Humanistic counselling is built on the belief that people have an innate capacity for growth when the conditions are right. Not because someone fixes them, but because they’re given the space, empathy and acceptance to discover themselves more fully.
I find that idea incredibly hopeful. Growth doesn’t always happen because someone gives us the answers. Often it happens because someone walks alongside us while we find our own.
There are seasons where every step feels hard, where progress seems invisible, and where it’s tempting to believe we’re standing still.
But perhaps those are the moments when we’re putting down roots. And perhaps, with the right support—our own version of a good pair of walking boots—we’re making far more progress than we realise.
Maybe growth isn’t something we should measure by how quickly we reach somewhere new. Maybe it’s found in the person we’re quietly growing into along the way.
So, whenever I’m in a season where it feels like nothing much is changing, I’ll remember my little fig tree. Just because growth isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. Sometimes the most important work happens beneath the surface.