If one were to check the dictionary definition of resiliency and then examine my life, one would conclude that I have not arrived at being fully resilient.

The Webster dictionary defines resiliency as something possessing “the ability to recover rapidly, as from misfortune: buoyancy.” I crumbled a little when I read this definition. My recovery time from trauma, misfortune or grief is far from rapid, and I would hardly call any aspect of my recovery buoyant. I’ve tried to imagine myself on a tiny boat with large, orange, balloon-like puffs encircling my arms and crowding up under my neck, keeping me afloat. I expand the image and see myself on this tiny boat, with a bright orange life jacket in the middle of a dark and wavy sea. This is not a good image for me. I am terrified of deep water. No one knows what truly lies underneath.

One would argue I have not arrived at being even half-way resilient.

I am no stranger to the word: resilient. It is whispered to me over and over again through books and deep friendships, from songs that jolt across the radio station, to quiet moments of revelation with God. I feel as though I’ve seen it written everywhere in romantic calligraphy, surrounded by flowers, and thrown onto every blog post about every woman and every sort of womanhood. As a Black woman, I find that word used to describe me, even in moments when I feel the furthest from it. The White liberal and White Christian evangelical populations alike love to crowd around my weary shoulders and sing quietly over my weeping, Oh, but you’re so strong and resilient, aren’t you? See how full of magic you are?

But I do not feel resilient. Today (and most days recently) I want to be weak and soft. I feel as though I am the embodiment of grief. There are several reasons for this. There is a global pandemic. There has been a lot of death. Within the United States there has been a lot of death. Within the Black community there has been a lot of death at the hands of police. Within my own family there has been death. My cousin died, and she was young. My father is dying. It is not a quick and easy death (though I would argue death is never easy). My father’s decline is a painful thing to watch. My grief expands and fragments alongside his quiet wilting. Then there is the death that has occurred within my own spirit. Death to the ideologies and beliefs I held for almost two decades. Death to friendships and relationships I once cherished. Death to the images and pedestals I built for certain people (pedestals that never should have been erected in the first place). Death to the narratives and futures I built for myself within my own mind.

And it goes on and on (the unraveling and the deconstruction and the death). All this death makes me feel like screaming. And makes me wonder: What is the old way of doing things? How did the women from long ago express their grief? Is this the proper time to rip my clothes and put on a sackcloth? Would now be the culturally appropriate time to go out into the street and wail? Cover myself with ash and tear my hair? Would I be seen as mad? Or would the line of traffic stop? Would everyone pause for a moment? Would one brave person open the car door, step out into the street, walk humbly across the sizzling pavement, and kneel with me? Would they unlock the grief buried deep within their own chest? Would they sob aloud with me? And in that moment of collective mourning, two humans, side-by-side, crying out from the deepest parts of our souls—would others join us? Would the ripple begin? I can see it now, the car doors opening, the street flooded with hands and feet and sound, and the orchestra of our innermost pain carried up into the cosmos.

Once, I had a mentor ask me if I lament well. She said this to me when I was at a low point in my life. At the time, I did not believe I could get any lower. (Clearly I did not know that one day I would be here, penning this. But then again, we never know these sorts of things. We never know where life is taking us, and what the bottom or even what the very tallest mountaintop looks like. We’re always surprised when we get there.) But there I was, telling her I did know how to lament well. I did know how to deeply express my grief and anguish. I was tapped into the deepest parts of my soul. I was already an open channel, as healthily connected as I could be. At that point in my life, the word resilient was a gleaming statue of gold, and I was on my way to ascending the Olympus of my brokenness. I wanted to get the trophy and the prize saying I had arrived. I wanted the stories told of how I had run my race of sorrow and rebounded with ease, with a smile on my lips, a twinkle in my eye, and joy in my heart.

But here, in this present moment, I have found the word, resilient, buried in the dirt. It is not plastered with swirling calligraphy and flowers. It is a seed. It is a seed that requires much tenderness and honesty. Give this seed lots of grace, mercy, and room for roots to grow. It does not want sympathy—only the respect and honor of being seen for what it is and where it happens to be on its journey upward. It is a seed that will eventually push up from the rough soil and bloom. But it only lives for a short time before its petals fall to the ground, and the once bright and leafy stem folds on itself and returns back to the earth.

Here is the most beautiful thing about this seed of resiliency: I am learning that to be resilient does not mean to exist in a finished state of being, but rather an ever-changing state of evolution and becoming. Just like the perennial flowers that do not need to be replanted, my resiliency is constantly being reborn. There have been seasons of my life where the fruit of my resilience has birthed the most beautiful and fragrant blossoms I have ever known. And then there are periods like the one I am living through, where my resilience is buried deep within the core of the earth; and it will take the hands of heaven to crack open the hardened shell and pull forth any sort of life. But my resiliency is there. It is not some shining, shimmering metal. It has become a tool for my survival. It is my trowel, my pickaxe, my compass, my bright, northern star. It is not something that has ever been lost, and it can ever be taken from me. It is soft and at times delicate. It is susceptible to the harsh winter winds, the hail and the rain. It is buoyant, for it can bloom anywhere it is planted, but in some cases, it might bloom slowly, painfully. At times the blossoms may not be as vibrant as they were in seasons before. Sometimes the bugs burrow in and chew at the leaves, or the lawn mower chops it down, or the neighborhood dog drops something horrendous on its petals. And what is left after all that? The seed!

Deep underneath the layers of ants and worms, the seed still hums and morphs and twists and becomes.

So I will keep lamenting and grieving and attempting to own it all (finally). There is no shame in that form of resilience. I am preparing for the next time there is spring.

-Kelsey Johnson

Kelsey Johnson is an actor, writer and teaching artist based in Indianapolis, Indiana.