There are trees along the river Clyde, near my home in Glasgow.

Through the seasons I’ve walked by them – some years never noticing them much at all, and sometimes staring at their leaves and branches looking for some hidden secret. As if the few decades of life on this earth mean that these trees held some wisdom that I could grasp – wisdom about how to hold steady against blowing gales, and how to grow and change year after year.

As I walked this path and the years passed, I looked at them more and more, thinking about how to navigate challenges that appeared in the path ahead: the dynamics of a modern marriage, a career path which has become messy and entangled, then later desperately trying to shed weight as part of the two year mission to get pregnant.

More and more I noticed the trees as a direct contrast to the messy noise in my head: hold steady, be still, breathe, grow.

When my daughter was finally growing big and strong inside me, I gazed at the trees, joyful for life, the miracles of nature all around and inside. When I walked and walked towards the end, ready for her to arrive safely and keeping moving to try bring her here safely and naturally. Moving and breathing, more closely mirroring the trees than in those earlier frantic walks and years.

At night doing visualisations (the angry young career woman turned slower, gentler meditator for birth) the trees were there, standing strong and confident: it will be ok, you will be ok, she will be ok. I have a big golden leaf that one of the trees shed days before she arrived. A big baby, birthed at home with a first time mum – her heart rate not even wavering once during the 18 hour labour. Strong, breathing, solid, growing.

Then once she was safely here, again walking by the river and the trees day after day. This time a new mum, panicked and unsure. Confused as to where the confidence and strength had blown away to. The trees in their winter state cracked and bare, mirroring me as I walked again and again, lonely and scared. Trying to think about how to grow and bend and change once more against the wind of change. My daughter wouldn’t feed, she screamed with colic caused by my inability to feed her the way I had wanted. After treatment for a tongue tie, with the shock of having to go through a medical procedure having kept her safe and away from interventions. How could I find the strength and breath I’d felt before she arrived?

Then came the pandemic. No easy breath, no company, fear and panic and loneliness. We walked by the trees day after day as a family, trying to find our way through to the light and buds and breath.

On some of those long, confusing days I hated the river, the city, the trees. How could this have happened? When will things go back to normal? When will I be able to see family and friends, or a physio for the aches in my pelvis which got worse and worse after giving birth.

During more than a year of parenting in a pandemic, we walked this route nearly every day. Families and young couples, older people on their own, walking and walking under the canopy of the trees trying to look for fun, distraction, peace and answers.

With each month more updates about what might change, then dashed hopes and more tree gazing.

But slowly and steadily the trees started to show their spring buds, and then burst into full loom. People went back to work, kids were back at school or playing organised sports in the fields, people were vaccinated, they seemed less tense and smiled more as they passed. So much life and hope and optimism all around.

And for me, finally some peace and space in my mind. I am ok, we are ok, I am strong, we have done ok – better than ok, great. We weathered a storm, we learned to bend without breaking and move in a rhythm which felt more easy and natural.

I keep walking the route, some days on my lunch break when working at home, seeing neighbours now in the habit of a daily walk, and other days with a happy toddler running along beside me pointing at the trees, stopping to roll around and play in their share. I laugh at ever having resented this walk, so grateful to this city for holding us. I celebrate how we have grown, thankful for the trees who showed us how to breathe.