some trees live for hundreds of years and others weather hurricanes, wildfires, and droughts. but they don’t do it alone.
root systems //
in forests, trees form what scientists call “common mycorrhizal networks,” interconnected root systems linked by underground fungi. these fungi act like a kind of communication network, allowing trees to share nutrients and chemical signals. if one tree is under attack by pests, it can send out chemical alerts to others nearby. if one lacks nutrients, a neighbor might send over some carbon.
these connections are part of a deeply cooperative system. even the oldest, largest trees—what ecologists call “mother trees”—support younger saplings by sending sugars through the soil. the whole ecosystem thrives because its members are connected.
and i think that’s true for us, too. connection is infrastructure. the people we call, the people who nudge us forward, the people who notice when we’re running low—they’re our root system. we can survive without them, maybe, but we grow differently when we’re plugged in.
social neuroscience supports this. human brains are wired for connection—oxytocin, sometimes called the "bonding hormone," helps regulate emotional trust and empathy, and is released during supportive interactions. even witnessing acts of kindness can activate our brain’s reward pathways. just like nutrient-rich soil feeds roots, our nervous systems stabilize in the presence of safety and care.
weathering storms //
in hurricane-prone regions, trees planted in clusters are far more likely to survive high winds than isolated ones. researchers studying storm-damaged forests have found that trees in groups stabilize each other. their intertwined roots distribute wind forces across a wider area. instead of bearing the pressure alone, they share it.
a 2020 study in Nature showed that mangrove trees, when growing in dense networks, were significantly more effective at resisting storm surges. it was about collective design over individual strength.
we see this in ourselves, too. the people who bounce back from hard seasons often have a network that quietly held them up. it’s about having the right social support system when things inevitably hit a trough, and of course, being that support for someone else when the winds pick up.
adaptation takes time //
trees are slow by nature. they don’t sprint toward the sun. they grow by degrees, building rings layer by layer. if a tree is damaged, it doesn't try to erase the wound. it shapes around it to survive.
scientists call this “reaction wood”—a specialized kind of tissue that forms in response to external stress. it’s nature’s version of resilience. the tree doesn’t go back to how it was before. it grows into something stronger as a result of what it had to withstand.
when we’re forced to bend, we want to snap back. but maybe the better way is to re-grow with intention. to let the experience shape us without defining us.
this re-growth is reflected in a number of human experiences. we learn to show up differently. we hold boundaries that didn’t exist before. we change our pace, our posture, our priorities. the people who seem calm in the middle of chaos probably didn’t start that way. they just adapted in layers.
even in the brain, experiences of growth are visible: neural plasticity allows us to reroute around damage, forming new mental models, just like a tree leans toward the sun in a new direction.
quiet interdependence //
trees aren’t loud about their support. their strength isn’t obvious. they don’t display effort. but underneath, there’s a network always at work.
the idea that strength equals independence is human, not natural. in a forest, survival depends on mutualism. giving and receiving without keeping score. being part of a system that lets others grow alongside you.
it made me think about how often we try to prove we’re self-sufficient. how rarely we ask for help, even when we need it. but interdependence is not weakness. it’s design. some of the most enduring systems—ecological, social, even technical—are built on trust, redundancy, and shared support.
i think we forget this sometimes. it’s easier to celebrate someone “doing it all on their own.” but i’ve found that the people who are actually thriving are never solo. they’re part of something strong underneath—whether it’s family, a mentor, a co-founder, or really anyone that’s looking out.
behavioral research shows that asking for help is correlated with higher task performance and stronger group cohesion. but we tend to underestimate how willing others are to help us. trees don’t hesitate to send carbon when needed…and maybe we shouldn’t hesitate to ask for or offer support, either.
a different kind of growth //
growth, when it happens, isn’t always visible. a seed might sit dormant for months before breaking soil. a tree might take years to fruit. yet all that time, something is happening. roots are reaching. structure is forming. stability is being built where no one can see it.
we often equate growth to output. the more visible, the better. but, growth can also be slow and layered, molding to the world around us—like trees.
and maybe our job isn’t to sprint toward the next thing, but to build a deeper foundation. to find people who hold us steady when things shake. to be someone else’s stability, too.
in college, growth often feels like doing more. more clubs. more internships. more traction. but the kind of growth that lasts often looks quiet—writing every morning, taking the long way home once in a while, asking better questions. not everything has to be visible to be real.
neuroscientifically, deep learning happens in slow cycles. memory consolidation during sleep, for instance, happens in the hippocampus, not when we’re doing more, but when we’re still. even the brain’s reward system adapts to effort-based learning—the kind that comes with repetition, rest, and deep work. so while growth might feel like pause, your brain knows better. it’s building.
what forests remember //
there’s a reason deforested land takes so long to recover. trees remember. their root networks hold knowledge—about water patterns, pest resistance, nutrient flows. tear it all out, and you don’t just lose the trees. you lose the memory of how to grow well there.
i wonder what it means for us to remember well. not to stay stuck in old seasons, but to carry forward what they taught us. to keep the lessons beneath the surface. to become more stable because of what we’ve endured—not in spite of it.
there are things i’ve left—friends, phases, whole versions of myself—and even though i don’t go back, i remember what those seasons taught me…like hard conversations that made you braver or tiny wins that made a risk worth it.
those lessons stay in our own kind of root system. we build on them. and sometimes, we pass them forward.
this tracks with research on emotional memory: the amygdala plays a key role in encoding emotionally charged experiences, especially those tied to growth, conflict, or connection. long-term memory doesn’t rely on fact—it relies on emotional meaning.
moral of the story //
even if we can’t see the full forest yet, the way we grow now determines whether we’ll withstand the next storm.
so according to trees, resilience isn’t about standing tall. it’s about standing together.
- manvi :)