Integration

Lisa Story on September 1, 2026

Gathering What We Have Learned

I write about nature often. I write about walking through the gardens, putting our hands in the soil, noticing the changing light, listening to the birds, and allowing the natural world to remind us to slow down. At Hope Grows, we have witnessed repeatedly how nature can become a place of respite, reflection, and healing.

But for some reason, this month has caused me to think differently about the very thing I so often describe as restorative: nature can also be unpredictable and powerful. Recent natural disasters remind us how quickly familiar landscapes—and lives—can change. As our clinical team continues its training in trauma and grief, I find myself thinking about those whose sense of safety has been altered in an instant.

Sometimes, nature doesn’t feel safe.

How do we reconcile that?  Perhaps that is part of what integration asks of us.

Integration isn’t pretending that everything fits neatly together. It isn’t finding the positive in every painful experience. Sometimes it means allowing two things to be true at once.

  • Nature can comfort us, and nature can frighten us.
  • We can trust, and we can ask questions.
  • We can be grateful for what nourishes us while becoming more thoughtful about where that nourishment comes from.

Even something as ordinary as buying a peach can remind us of this. Several times this summer, I brought home beautiful peaches. They looked nearly perfect on the outside. I waited for them to ripen, anticipating that wonderful first bite, only to cut them open and find them bruised, mushy, or simply not what I expected. It’s a small disappointment in a world carrying much larger ones. Yet it made me think about appearances, expectations, and trust.

How often do we assume that because something looks good on the outside, everything underneath must be okay? People do this, too. Families do it. Organizations and systems do it. Sometimes even our own lives do it.

Integration invites us to look beneath the surface. Not with fear, but with wisdom.

September’s flower, the aster, arrives as summer begins surrendering to fall. It blooms at a threshold, reminding us that beauty doesn’t belong to only one season of life. Our essential oil this month, cedarwood, carries an equally fitting symbolism: grounding, steadiness, and roots.

Maybe September isn’t asking us to escape the unsettling things happening around us. Maybe it is asking us to become more rooted while acknowledging them.

  • To gather the lessons.
  • To recognize what has changed us.
  • To question what deserves questioning.
  • To hold gratitude without using it to silence grief.

And to understand that being grounded does not mean being untouched by what is happening in the world.

For caregivers and those grieving a loss, this may be especially important. Life can change our understanding of what is safe, predictable, and trustworthy. A diagnosis, a death, a disaster, or an unexpected phone call can divide life into before and after. Integration is the slow work of bringing those pieces back into relationship with one another.

Not returning to who we were before. Not pretending the difficult parts didn’t happen. But gathering what we have learned and allowing it to become part of who we are becoming.

As the asters bloom and the season begins to turn, perhaps September offers us a different invitation from nature: Don’t ask me to always be gentle. Let me teach you how to be rooted.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Hope Grows Founder & Director

Where nature heals the heart.

Cedarwood graphic

September Focus: Integration

Essential Oil: Cedarwood

Flower: Aster

At Hope Grows, we believe healing happens when we create space for both grief and growth. Through counseling, support groups, respite opportunities, and programs such as The Gathering Table, we invite caregivers and those grieving a loss to share their stories, find connection, and discover moments of restoration along the way. Call us at 412.369.4673 or email intake@hopegrows.org.

Disclaimer: This site offers information designed for educational purposes only. You should not rely on any information on this site as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, treatment, or as a substitute for professional counseling care, advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you have any concerns or questions about your health, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional.

Stewardship of Energy

Lisa Story on July 31, 2026

Things We Never Really Own

There is an uncomfortable truth that nature quietly teaches us: nothing truly belongs to us. Not the towering oak that shades the garden, not the changing seasons that arrive without our permission, not even the breath we are taking at this very moment. For a time, we are simply entrusted with them.

During my years as a hospice spiritual counselor, I came to understand something that no textbook could have taught me. No matter how much time I spent talking with someone or quietly sitting beside them, I could not save them. I could comfort the soul while disease continued its course. Nurses cared faithfully for bodies that continued to weaken. None of us could stop death. What we could do was accompany another human being with dignity, presence, and love.

Accepting this truth was heartbreaking. Yet, over time, it became strangely liberating. Looking back, I realized this was a profound stewardship of energy. Our purpose was never to control life. Our purpose was to bear witness to it.

There is something deeply sacred about sitting beside another person in their vulnerability. Holding a hand. Preparing a meal. Listening to the same story for the tenth time because it still matters to the one telling it. These moments rarely change the outcome. They change us.

Perhaps that is the deeper work of caregiving.

The philosopher Martin Buber wrote that life is found in relationships. We become ourselves not in isolation, but in genuine encounters with one another. Grief reveals this truth with startling clarity. When someone dies, we discover that love has never been measured by the number of days we shared, but by the ways one’s life continues to shape our own.

Spend even a few moments in the gathering spaces of a funeral home, and you notice something remarkable. Families rarely begin by talking about careers, awards, or accomplishments. Instead, you hear things like: “She made everyone feel like family,” “He taught me how to forgive,” “She listened without trying to fix me,” and “He always showed up.” These are the stories that remain. They remind us of a life measured less by what we accumulated than by what we cultivated in others.

This is why grief asks something different from us than simply “moving on.” It asks us to become good stewards of the energy that remains. That energy can be found in the stories, the traditions, the values, the laughter we can still hear, the recipes written in familiar handwriting, and the lessons learned through ordinary days that no longer feel ordinary.

These reflections have become the heartbeat of the Hope Grows’ Gathering Table. The Legacy Project invites caregivers and those who are grieving to share their stories. I am continually reminded that storytelling is far more than therapy. It is one of humanity’s oldest spiritual practices. Stories answer perhaps the deepest question we ask near the end of life: “Will this life be remembered?”

Legacy is carried forward in quiet moments that no one else notices. Legacy lives in quiet acts of listening, comforting, mentoring, and compassion. It is also about “what we cultivate in others.” Legacy is not what we leave behind; it is what continues to grow in the lives of others because we experience something.

Nature has always understood what we struggle to accept, that endings and beginnings often occupy the same space. A tree does not cling to its leaves when autumn arrives. It releases them, not because they were unimportant, but because letting go is part of making room for what comes next. The leaves become nourishment for the very ground that will sustain future growth.

Perhaps our lives are meant to unfold in much the same way. Bearing witness, is itself, an act of stewardship. When we truly witness another person’s suffering, another person’s joy, or a life well-lived, we become responsible for carrying some part of that story forward.

That’s what the Legacy Project is doing.

That’s what caregivers do.

That’s what grief eventually asks of us.

In the end, stewardship has never been about owning anything at all. It has always been about faithfully caring for what was entrusted to us, knowing that one day we will place it gently back in the hands of time. Perhaps, maybe that is the invitation August quietly offers us. Not to ask how much more we can do. But to ask what has been entrusted to us and how we will care for it while it is still in our hands.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Hope Grows Founder & Director

August Focus: Stewardship of Energy
Essential Oil: Bergamot
Flower: Calendula

At Hope Grows, we believe healing happens when we create space for both grief and growth. Through counseling, support groups, respite opportunities, and programs such as The Gathering Table, we invite caregivers and those grieving a loss to share their stories, find connection, and discover moments of restoration along the way. Call us at 412.369.4673 or email intake@hopegrows.org.

Disclaimer: This site offers information designed for educational purposes only. You should not rely on any information on this site as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, treatment, or as a substitute for professional counseling care, advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you have any concerns or questions about your health, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional.

Nourishment – June Focus

Lisa Story on June 4, 2026

Nourishment: Savoring What Is Blooming

June arrives with longer days, gardens blooming, and nature quietly reminding us that growth does not happen all at once. Spring’s tender beginnings have given way to the possibilities of summer abundance. Blossoms open, vegetables begin to emerge from the soil, birds feed their young, and the world seems to exhale into a season of nourishment.

Yet nourishment is about more than food.

For those navigating grief, loss, caregiving, or life transitions, nourishment often becomes something deeper; a gentle invitation to replenish what has been depleted. Feeling the sadness or pain of loss has a way of consuming our energy, disrupting our routines, and disconnecting us from the things that once sustained us. Amid the sorrow, we may forget to eat well, rest deeply, or tend to our own needs. We may find ourselves surviving rather than thriving.

Nature teaches us another way.

A garden does not bloom continuously without pause. Between periods of growth are moments of rest, integration, and renewal. The roots beneath the soil quietly absorb nutrients. Rain nourishes what the sun has awakened. Growth and restoration work together, each depending on the other, the same is true for us.

We Learn What We Live

Social Learning Theory, developed by Albert Bandura, teaches us that much of human behavior is learned through observation and modeling. As children, and throughout life, we absorb lessons not only from what we are told but from what we witness in others. We learn how to express emotions, navigate relationships, cope with stress, and respond to grief by watching those around us. This idea is reflected in Dorothy Law Nolte’s well-known phrase, “Children learn what they live.” In many ways, behavior is caught more often than it is taught. The patterns we experience and observe often shape how we move through the world, influencing how we care, cope, connect, and heal across generations.

As some of you may know, Hope Grows was born out of my grief and I tell the family story through a 4-part YouTube Video Series. As I reflect on my childhood, I observed and absorbed lessons of nourishment in the sense of ‘taking a break’. I watched my parents, especially my mom, never “Take a Break.” She was a real trend setter back in the day, a work from home mom, juggling six children and running the office for my dad’s roofing business. I learned about great work ethic but also learned that “taking a break” had to be earned. Ugh!

I digress a bit here, but the point being that as we move through June, let us consider nourishment as more than just food to sustain us. Nourishment begins by giving ourselves permission to rest. Not because we have earned it, but because we need it. Rest is not laziness. It is an act of care. It allows our minds, bodies, and spirits to integrate what we have experienced and creates space to reflect on where we have been and where we are going.

One Last Thought: Nourishment in Grief is Storytelling

One of the most overlooked forms of nourishment in grief is storytelling. When we tell our stories, we begin to gather the scattered pieces of our experience. We make meaning from what has happened. We remember not only the loss, but also the love. Sharing our stories allows us to carry memories forward rather than carry them alone. It helps us discover that our grief is part of our story, but it is not the entirety of who we are.

Just as a honeysuckle vine grows by intertwining itself with the world around it, our stories connect us to others. They remind us that healing often happens in relationships. Through conversation, reflection, journaling, support groups, or simply sitting with a trusted friend, we nourish ourselves when we allow our stories to be heard.

Book with a sprig of lavender 1

Consider lavender, the essential oil for the month. It is beloved for its calming and restorative qualities. Lavender encourages us to slow down, breathe deeply, and create moments of peace amidst life’s demands. It reminds us that nourishment is not always found in doing more. Sometimes it is found by being present, allowing our nervous systems to settle, and receiving the comfort that the oil offers.

Reflection: May you find nourishment for your mind, body, and spirit. May you rest when needed, savor what is blooming, and remember that your story matters.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Hope Grows Founder & Director

Focus of the Month: Nourishment
Essential Oil: Lavender
Flower: Honeysuckle

At Hope Grows, we believe healing happens when we create space for both grief and growth. Through counseling, support groups, respite opportunities, and programs such as The Gathering Table & Legacy Initiative – Grief Soup, we invite caregivers and those grieving a loss to share their stories, find connection, and discover moments of restoration along the way. Call us at 412.369.4673 or email intake@hopegrows.org.

Disclaimer: This site offers information designed for educational purposes only. You should not rely on any information on this site as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, treatment, or as a substitute for professional counseling care, advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you have any concerns or questions about your health, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional.

Tender Growth

Lisa Story on April 15, 2026

The Misunderstood Language of Care

“Rest, Relax, & Restore!” and “Take care of yourself.”  Words Hope Grows has uttered over the course of their mission. Words that are often offered with the best of intentions. And yet, for caregivers and those grieving, they can feel hollow—even frustrating.

At Hope Grows, we understand the difficulty, we know that your world has shifted, rest is not always restorative. Stillness can feel loud. And balance is not something you find—it is something you practice, moment by moment. Emotional regulation, too, becomes an ongoing act of patience. Not perfection. Not control. But gentle returning.

April arrives with a quiet insistence. Like the slow unfurling of a petal. Again, and again. Like breath. Not the bold certainty of summer, nor the deep stillness of winter—but something far more delicate. A season of becoming. A season of tender growth.

Fragile Beginnings

There is a moment—often quiet, often unnoticed—when caregiving begins. It may not feel like a beginning at all. It may feel like an interruption, a disruption, or an overwhelming shift. But beneath it, something new has taken root.

Tender. Uncertain. Fragile.

The same is true in grief. When we lose someone we love, the world does not simply pause—it changes. And in that change, we find ourselves at the beginning of something we never asked for. A new way of being. A new landscape to navigate.

Like April soil, recently stirred, we are not yet steady. We are not yet strong. We are simply… beginning.

A Lesson from the Garden

This week, I planted lettuce and herbs—my first planting of the season. It felt hopeful. A small act of trust in what is to come. And yet, as April reminds us, hope requires attention. Freezing temperatures are in the forecast. Which means I must remain vigilant—watching the weather, covering the plants, protecting them from forces beyond their control. 

And as I tend to them, I am reminded of what it means to care for something in its early stages. This is what it means to honor fragility. Not by forcing growth, but by protecting it.

In nature, this tenderness is easy to see. The soft emergence of tulips, their petals still learning how to open. The tulips, bright yet vulnerable, bending with each passing wind. The earth, recently thawed, offering just enough warmth to invite new life forward—but not without risk.

This is not a season of full bloom. This is a season of fragile beginnings. And so, it is for caregivers. And so, it is for those who are grieving.

Protecting Your Tender Growth

Shielding, protecting, defending. There are seasons in life where we, too, require this kind of care. Where nourishment is disrupted. Where energy is depleted. Where even the idea of reaching out for community feels distant—misaligned with what our soul is quietly asking for.

Confusing?? For sure!! This concept is unclear because we are told that connection is healing. And it is. But there are moments when what we need first is not outward connection—but inward protection. A covering, a boundary, a gentle tending to our own internal climate.

Like placing a cloth over young plants to shield them from frost, we are allowed to create spaces of safety for ourselves.

This may look like:

  • Saying no without explanation
  • Stepping away from noise or expectation
  • Choosing rest in a way that feels right, not prescribed
  • Allowing emotions to come and go without urgency to “fix” them

This is not withdrawal. This is wisdom.

The Symbolism of April: Tulip & Geranium

It would not be me if I didn’t bring in some symbolism with this month’s flower and essential oil pick. The tulip, April’s flower, carries the essence of gentle emergence. It does not rush its bloom. It responds to its environment—opening when conditions allow, closing when they do not. There is much to learn from the rhythm of nature. There is some level of permission with this flower. There is permission to open slowly, permission to close when needed, and permission to honor your own timing.

Geranium, April’s essential oil, speaks to emotional balance—not as a fixed state, but as a living rhythm. It reminds us that steadiness is not the absence of feeling, but the ability to move with our emotions rather than against them. In part, the reason we put Geranium essential oil in our Signature Blend that we sell here at Hope Grows. Together, they offer a quiet message of not having to be fully open to grow and not having to feel balanced to find your way.

Continue through April with a Gentle Reflection

April is not asking you to bloom.

It is asking you to tend.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Hope Grows Founder & Director

At Hope Grows, we support those grieving a loss. If you are struggling, reach out to connect. Call us at 412.369.4673 or email intake@hopegrows.org.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder of Hope Grows

Focus of the Month: Tender Growth
Essential Oil: Geranium
Flower: Tulip

Disclaimer: This site offers information designed for educational purposes only. You should not rely on any information on this site as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, treatment, or as a substitute for professional counseling care, advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you have any concerns or questions about your health, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional.

Trusting the Thaw

Lisa Story on March 10, 2026

March arrives quietly, often caught between winter’s lingering chill and spring’s first whispers. Snow may still cling to shaded corners. Trees may still appear bare. And yet—beneath the surface—life is stirring.

For caregivers and those living with grief, March often mirrors this in-between space. You may feel tired of the heaviness, longing for lightness, while still carrying deep emotional weight. “Trusting the thaw” is an invitation to honor this tender transition—to believe that healing is unfolding, even when it isn’t yet visible.

The landscape of the winter thaw does not arrive all at once. It happens gradually—drop by drop, root by root. In nature, this slow unfolding is essential. A sudden shift would overwhelm fragile ecosystems, including humans. I, for one, suffer greatly with allergies when the temperature shifts 30 degrees in one day, however, fortunately for the earth, it softens slowly, patiently allowing life to reawaken at a sustainable pace.

Grief and caregiving follow a similar rhythm.

There are seasons when emotional numbness protects us. When exhaustion wraps around us like winter’s blanket. When simply getting through the day feels like enough. And then—quietly—something begins to soften. A moment of laughter. A deeper breath. A spark of creativity. A desire to reconnect.

These moments do not mean grief is gone. They mean you are learning to carry it differently.

March reminds us that we do not have to rush our healing. We are allowed to thaw in our own time.

Daffodils & Laurel Leaf: Courage in Early Emergence

Among the first flowers to rise after winter, daffodils symbolize hope, resilience, and brave beginnings. They do not wait for perfect conditions. They bloom when the ground is still cold and storms still threaten; blooming occurs regardless.

Laurel leaf, long associated with inner authority and spiritual strength, complements this message. Historically linked to victory and wisdom, laurel reminds us that courage is not always loud or visible. Often, it is quiet persistence.

For caregivers and grievers, this courage may look like asking for help when you’ve always been “the strong one”. While this sounds easy, it is not, especially when you have been the one relying only on yourself for a long time. Setting boundaries around your energy is another hard one. Most empathetic and nurturing people struggling with boundaries. They want to be the fixer, the helper, the nurturer but I will tell you that if you set boundaries, you can rest without guilt, begin to tell the story about how hard this really is, and then the result is tenderness toward yourself. 

This is early emergence. This is quiet bravery. You do not have to be “fully healed” to move forward. You only need enough courage to take the next gentle step.

Trusting your inner authority in times of loss.

Grief can shake our sense of self. Caregiving can erode our confidence. When life revolves around crisis, illness, or loss, it becomes easy to forget that you still hold wisdom inside you.

March invites you back to your inner authority. This means learning to listen inward again and asking yourself these questions.

  • What does your body need today?
  • Where are you feeling depleted?
  • What brings even a small sense of peace?
  • What no longer feels sustainable?

You are allowed to honor these answers. Inner authority is not about control. It is about self-trust.

It is believing that your needs matter.
It is recognizing that rest is not weakness.
It is understanding that tending to your own spirit strengthens your capacity to care for others.

Just as laurel grows steadily, rooted and resilient, you are learning to grow into a new version of yourself shaped by love, loss, and lived experience.

Happy Spring!

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder of Hope Grows

Focus of the Month: Trusting the Thaw
Essential Oil: Laurel Leaf
Flower: Daffodil

Breath and Softening

Lisa Story on February 20, 2026

February asks very little of us—and that, in itself, can feel unsettling. This sure did apply with the latest storm that blanketed over 45 states recently. The calendar says winter is nearly over, yet the cold lingers. The light is returning, but not fast enough. We are told to look for signs of renewal while our bodies and hearts may still feel heavy, tired, or raw. This is often the month of holding on—not dramatically, but quietly. Breathing through what has not yet eased.

Our February focus is Breath & Softening, an invitation not to fix or push forward, but to gently support the nervous system as it carries grief, loss, caregiving fatigue, and the weight of uncertainty. It is about humility—acknowledging what we cannot control—and quiet resilience—the kind that does not announce itself, but endures.

When Winter Lingers in the Body

The nervous system is deeply influenced by season. Cold, darkness, and prolonged stillness can heighten stress responses, particularly for those already living with grief or caregiving demands. When loss is present, winter can amplify isolation and emotional numbness. When caregiving is ongoing, the body may never fully rest.

And sometimes, even when the snow rests beautifully on the branches of trees, there is no joy in the view. No peace. Just a sense of going on. This is where breath and softening matter—not as a cure, but as a form of companionship for the body.

Roman Chamomile: A Gentle Exhale

Roman Chamomile is known for its calming, soothing properties, particularly for the nervous system. Emotionally, it carries a message of reassurance—you are allowed to rest here.

Rather than energizing or uplifting, Roman Chamomile softens. It supports the parasympathetic nervous system, helping the body shift out of vigilance and into safety, even briefly. Inhaling the oil signals safety to the body and supports release. 

Roman Chamomile does not ask you to feel better. It simply helps you breathe where you are.

Violet: Humility and Quiet Strength

Violet grows low to the ground. It does not compete for attention. It thrives in shaded places and often appears when the cold has not fully loosened its grip. As a symbol, Violet teaches humility—not in the sense of diminishing oneself, but in accepting life as it is in this moment. It reminds us that resilience does not always look like courage or optimism. Sometimes resilience looks like tenderness. Like staying present when things hurt.

Violet is traditionally associated with the heart and with grief. It speaks to those moments when sorrow feels too heavy for words, when strength feels quiet and unseen.

In February, Violet reminds us that survival does not require joy. It requires breath.

Breath as a Bridge

Breath is one of the few tools that gently bridges the gap between adversity and endurance. When grief, loss, or caregiving overwhelm the system, breath offers a way to soften without surrendering. This is not about calming the mind. It is about letting the body know it does not have to brace every moment.

When the Beauty of Nature offers No Peace

There can be a quiet shame in not feeling comforted by nature when others say it should help. Snow-covered trees may be objectively beautiful, but grief can block access to wonder. Caregiving can drain the capacity for delight.

And that is okay.

Nature does not require us to feel anything specific. Winter teaches endurance through stillness, not through joy. Trees do not bloom prematurely because the calendar changes. They wait.

So can we.

February’s invitation is not renewal—it is softening into what remains unfinished. Breathing alongside what lingers. Trusting that humility and quiet resilience are not failures of faith or strength, but expressions of wisdom.

Even when peace feels absent, the breath is still available.
Even when joy does not arrive, softening can.

And sometimes, that is enough for now.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder of Hope Grows

Focus of the Month: Breath & Softening
Essential Oil: Roman Chamomile
Flower: Violet