From the Ashes

They Burned, and Then They Healed

For several years, I worked as a naturalist for the Department of Natural Resources.

One of the most misunderstood tools we used was fire.

Not wildfire.

Not destruction.

Prescribed burns.

Intentional.

Measured.

Watched carefully by people who understood the land.

Fire was used as preservation.

The forests would be set alight on purpose—old growth burned away, invasive species cleared, nutrients returned to the soil. What looked like devastation to an untrained eye was actually restoration in motion. Ash fed the earth. Seeds that had waited years finally opened. Native plants returned. Wildlife followed.

The forest burned.

And then it healed.

And then it thrived.

I think about that often when I think about life.

We spend so much time fearing the burn—loss, grief, endings, the moments that scorch us down to bare ground. We’re taught that if something hurts, it must be wrong. That damage means failure. That fire only destroys.

But that isn’t always true.

Some things have to burn in order to make space for what is native to us.

Some seasons strip us down because what was growing there no longer belonged.

Some pain clears what was choking us, even if we don’t recognize it at first.

Healing doesn’t always look gentle.

Sometimes it looks like smoke.

Sometimes it smells like ash.

Sometimes it feels like standing in the aftermath wondering if anything will ever grow again.

But it does.

Slowly. Quietly. On its own timeline.

The land doesn’t rush its recovery. It doesn’t apologize for the fire. It simply does what it was designed to do—regenerate, adapt, return to balance.

Life is like that.

We burn.

We survive.

We heal.

And one day, without realizing it, we’re standing in new growth—stronger roots, clearer space, and a landscape shaped not by what destroyed us, but by what taught us how to begin again.