Transplant Shock is not Just for Plants

Tips for transitions

Several years ago, friends gifted me and my husband an adorable tiny plant. It lived in a terra cotta herb pot. It spent most of its first summer outside on our deck. Its watering can was the sky. It spent its first winter on the bathroom window sill, where its watering can was less reliable, depending on humans with paper cups. It did okay. We repeated the cycle the following year. Soon it needed more: more water, more sun, and more room.

We decided it was time for a new home, and transplanted it to a larger pot. And you know what? It didn’t do well at first. It had a serious case of transplant shock. It took time for it to settle in, to secure its roots in the soil, to weave in and through mycelium. It wilted and faded, not enough for us to relegate it to the compost pile but enough for us to wonder if maybe we should have kept it where it was.

Our little plant shortly after we transplanted it…last year? Two years ago?

It’s no accident that “transplant” and “transition” share the same Latin root word. “Trans” means across, beyond, and over. If new environments are tough for plants, how much more so for humans?

We are creatures of habit and routine. Changes in relationships, work environments, health, and home are unsettling, even when they are chosen deliberately. Those changes are even tougher when they are not. And then there is the promise/threat/specter of change and the unknown. We are certain “things will be different.” We don’t know what that “different” will feel or look like.

I am learning a lot about transitions and transplanting.

I’m the same seed or plant in a different soil, as a wise gardener friend observed. I’ve never, not once, longed to hop back to my old container’s familiar but depleted and unhealthy environment. But I have been the languishing plant.

From August until February, I desperately grasped for a place of security, my roots reaching outward toward everything and nothing. I had plenty to keep me busy: a ghostwriting gig, writing classes, an Americorps position, a Bible Study, and a ton of reading. But the why or for what was tough. I cried. A lot. Questions of who am I and what am I worth kept nagging at me, and I definitely felt the loss of social capital that comes with the job title “college professor” and affiliation with an institution.

In the last month, I’ve felt myself stretching up, reaching more definitively toward the light, getting more intertwined with the soil. I am still waiting and taking root, but things seem to be settling.

Our little plant isn’t so little anymore. They grow up so fast! It’s again exceeding its boundaries.

It takes time and waiting is hard.

Transitions also takes some strategy, practices, and mindsets. I’m going to share what’s helping me here with the hopes that one might stick for those who are currently in transition, transplantation, or experiencing violent uprootedness? Namely, these are for everyone.

I am a lot healthier and happier now that I’ve been able to claim this as truth: Feelings are not moral or immoral; “I shouldn’t feel this way” is a damaging lie. These mindsets have been a struggle for me. I have felt scared and sad and bereft since I left my job, and have felt guilty for feeling scared, sad, and bereft. I chose this change. I get angry at myself. But that anger, those tears, that grief? They’re human.

There is no Biblical commandment not to feel a certain way. There are lots of instructions for how to shepherd feelings responsibly and healthfully; naming, observing, and resting with them—even when it’s so yucky—are ways to do that.

It’s okay to not know what you’re feeling but know you’re feeling because you’re (for example) standing in the family room wiping your dripping nose with toilet paper because you’ve already used up the Kleenex. Crying it out is healthy. Crying helps you know what your body is carrying. Sometimes crying helps you recognize what you had not identified before.

Friends and fellowship matter. When one quits or loses a job, or moves, or has a relationship change their social identities change, too. You may be isolated at precisely the moment when you need other people most. I’ve been blessed to be able to keep in touch with colleagues from my institution, but have also been deliberate about connecting with people and developing friendships through new activities.

Structure is important. One of my favorite things about this new state of in between is that I have more control over my schedule, a schedule that does not include grading on nights and weekends and in the car on the way to vacation; meaningless forms and reports; and meetings that rehash conversations had last week and two years ago. That is also one of my least favorite things, because sometimes the time is vast and I miss the people component of all of the things I just grumbled about above.

There are obvious ways to structure a day—for example, volunteering, committing to a daily exercise class, etc. These are a start, but haven’t really helped me on the days when I feel like my soul is in the dryer being jostled with a pair of tennis shoes. This is most days.

So, two related, less obvious, and possibly woo-woo sounding ways that are working for me are microstructures and transition rituals.

I’ve conscientiously attached certain activities with tasks.

• I light a vanilla candle and sit down to do my Bible study and morning yoga first thing in the morning. I now associate the scent with calm, and the blowing out of the candle as the next phase of my day.

• I eat breakfast and see my husband out the door, change clothes and put my make-up on. I’m now “dressed up” for the day and I sit my butt in chair and get to writing the “just for me for now but please God let this be a bestseller or at least get published on an obscure arts website with at least two readers” writing.

• Somewhere in there there is lunch, followed by a walk outside or the treadmill.

• Then, I make a cup of tea and head upstairs for the “serious” writing that I owe to others. Before I sit down, I do a downward facing dog or two to set mind on the task at hand.

The point is not the what or how; it’s that these structures help me harness my energies and anxieties and focus on the present.

These are some of the take-aways I’ve had the last few months.

That, and the realization that the human condition is the transition condition. We’re always, somehow, in the in-between, the crossing over, in that space between knowing and not knowing. We just don’t always know it.

My now not-so-little plant serves as an appropriate illustration. It survived and thrived. It is branching off and leaning into the sun, but it’s starting to look a little worse for wear. It’s exceeding its boundaries. Again.

Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear from you:

• What are your tips for transitions? Are there specific practices, quotes, or structures that have helped/are helping you?

• What are some other metaphors for times of change?