Maybe you’re a fern like me?
I’m not a cactus, I’m a fern
For anyone who’s ever felt like they had to shape-shift to be loved, this is for you. This is a reflection on choosing honesty over performance, honoring your nervous system’s wisdom, and learning to grow in the soil that was meant for you. It’s about self-responsibility and self-compassion. It’s about setting boundaries without apology. It’s a reminder that you are not too much, and you’re always enough, and you’re an absolutely exquisite fern. 🌿
I value love.
Kindness. Compassion. Empathy. Helping. Supporting. Uplifting. Empowering. Encouraging.
These aren’t just words to me. They’re the soil I want and need to grow in. Sometimes what I need is a crunchwrap supreme.
While I believe in setting goals that reflect a commitment to self-responsibility and care, I’ve come to realize that taking care of myself also means knowing when to ask for help. It means normalizing and humanizing the truth that I will never thrive without the nutrients I need. Those essential nutrients include rest, food, music, fun.
And sometimes, the most loving thing I can do for myself is to create distance from people who activate my defense mechanisms.
I still catch myself fawning, people-pleasing, shrinking, or pretending —trying to morph into what I think someone else wants. I still find myself performing. When this happens, my intention is to lovingly remind myself that that’s not connection; it’s survival, and that’s not a place I’m willing to live anymore. I am an adult with the ability to choose my environment, and I think the people pleasing part of me forgets that. I’ll lovingly remind her every time.
There’s a quote I return to often, because it feels like medicine:
“Anything you lose from being honest, you never really had in the first place.”
— Cirilo R. Manego III
If honesty makes someone pull away, then what they were connected to wasn’t truly me — it was just my press secretary-- a version of me curated for their comfort. I’m not going to try to figure out someone’s preferences as if there’s an algorithm that will keep me safe from rejection and criticism.
Cruelty, judgment, bullying—they’re like the desert sun on my fragile leaves.
It was by accident of birth and life experience that I was not designed for the desert.
If I have to hide or edit parts of myself to be loved, I’m not in a safe relationship.
If my nervous system is sounding alarms, I’m listening.
If my boundaries feel threatened, I’m choosing space.
I’m not a cactus. I’m a fern.
I won’t thrive in the desert, no matter how determined I am to adapt.
It might be true that I can’t thrive in certain conditions, but maybe the issue isn’t me.
Maybe the conditions are the problem.
I’m not saying we all have the privilege to walk away. I want to make space for the people and times in life where we know a situation isn’t ideal, but we’re not ready or able to shift yet. That’s okay, too. You deserve so much love and support, and I hope you find it.
I just know that as much as I can, I’m staying the hell out of the desert. I’m deliberately surrounding myself with those who are proud of me for doing so. They get it. They see the fern in me and celebrate it with me. Being seen as I am is the only way I can be loved as I am.
So I trust my body and the signals it gives me, and I hold them with love, curiosity, and deep respect. I choose people and places that bring my body and soul peace. My wish for you is the same. May you come to know and love every part of your ferny self.
From one tender fern to another: you’re delightful. Just the way you are.
I’m with you.
Always,
Karen, Wholehearted Counseling LLC