The Necessity of Pruning: Letting Go to Grow
I love zinnias. They’re one of my favorite flowers—vibrant, resilient, and full of unexpected beauty.
Every spring, I find myself kneeling in the garden, fingers in the soil, preparing a space for these tiny seeds to take root. There’s something sacred about the process—choosing the seeds, planting them with intention, and waiting patiently for life to emerge. I love their colors—bold oranges, fiery pinks, soft yellows—and how no two blooms are exactly alike. I love how something so delicate and beautiful can grow from something so small and seemingly insignificant.
I plant zinnias every year. And every year, they teach me something new.
Some seasons, they grow wild and full, bursting beyond their borders with confidence. Other years, they struggle—crowded by weeds, stunted by harsh weather, or overtaken by pests. This year was somewhere in between.
While weeding my zinnia patch recently, my son joined me in the garden. I had only managed to tend to half the bed—the other half still tangled in weeds and overgrowth. I pointed out how the flowers in the cleared section were standing tall, full of color and life, while the others remained small, pale, and stifled.
We talked about how life is like that. Sometimes, we find ourselves growing in spaces that are too crowded—with stress, old patterns, toxic relationships, or unresolved pain. Without noticing, we become entangled in things that sap our energy and block our light.
After we finished weeding the rest of the garden bed, some of the plants—though now free of weeds—looked even more fragile. Their roots had been disturbed, their stems shaken. They were exposed, raw, and in need of extra care. They would need more water, more light, and time to recover. But I knew that, in time, they would bloom.
This, too, is what healing often feels like.
Healing is not linear. It happens in layers. Sometimes, it’s not until we’ve cleared away what no longer serves us that we begin to realize how heavy it all was—how much space it took up, how much light it blocked. Pruning is the part of healing we don’t talk about enough. It’s the painful, necessary act of removing what is no longer life-giving, or adjusting what is blocking growth and change.
We may have to prune away behaviors that once protected us but now limit us. We may need to adjust or remove relationships that keep us stuck in cycles of shame or smallness. Environments that reinforce outdated versions of who we are. Beliefs that once helped us survive but now keep us from thriving.
When we prune back the dying, stunted, and the diseased parts of our lives, it can leave us feeling exposed—weak, raw, and uncertain. There is often grief in letting go, even if what we’re releasing was never good for us. There may be loneliness, isolation, and self-doubt. But if we can trust the process, if we surround ourselves with what nourishes us—rest, connection, therapy, nature, creativity, love—we begin to see signs of new growth.
Without pruning, the toxic and decaying parts can spread. Left unattended, they can impact the whole system—just as weeds can weaken and choke out a whole bed of flowers. But with intention and care, pruning opens the way for healthier, stronger branches to grow.
And pruning, like in the flowerbed, doesn’t just happen once. It’s a continual practice.
Sometimes—this is the hardest part—we even have to prune what looks good.
I’ve learned that with zinnias, pinching off a bloom—yes, even a beautiful one—can actually stimulate more growth. By removing a flower early, the plant is prompted to send energy outward, producing multiple new blooms instead of focusing all its effort on just one. The result? A fuller, more vibrant garden. More color. More life.
In our healing and personal growth, this can look like letting go of opportunities that don’t align with our deepest values, or stepping away from relationships that were positive for a time, but are now limiting. Roles that look great on the surface but quietly drain us. It might mean saying no to a version of yourself that’s polished but performative, in favor of a more authentic, embodied way of being.
This kind of pruning is especially painful because it doesn’t always make sense to the outside world—or even to ourselves at first. It in stepping in the new and unfamiliar. For most of us, this requires deep trust. Trust that by releasing what looks good now, we’re making space for what is truly good for us in the long run.
So if you find yourself in a season of letting go, know this: it may feel disorienting, but it is also sacred. You are creating space for what is meant to grow. And in time—just like the zinnias—you will bloom again.
What areas of your life feel overgrown or tangled?
Is there something you’re holding onto that looks “good,” but quietly drains you?
What might you need to prune in order to grow into your next season?
If you’re in the midst of a pruning season—whether it feels empowering, painful, or both—I’d be honored to walk alongside you. Therapy is a place to slow down, tend to your roots, and create the space you need to thrive. Reach out if you're ready to begin.
