How the Grass Gets Greener: Let Yourself Grow & Find Your Flow

If you’ve been following along recently, you know the path I’ve been walking lately has been anything but predictable. Each day has brought a kaleidoscope of emotions—relief one moment, anxiety the next. Anger. Peace. Clarity. Confusion. Excitement for what’s unfolding and grief over what’s been lost. The emotional swings have been dizzying, leaving me unsure of which feeling to trust, which to follow, and which one might carry me forward.

Last week, I wrote about “tiny anchors”—those small but steadying forces that can tether us in the middle of life’s chaos. And while I’m not someone who believes "everything happens for a reason" or that there’s some divine script we're all following, I do believe in symbolism. I believe that when we’re able to pay attention—like really pay attention—we start to see signs of where we’ve been, where we’re going, and what we need to notice in order to move forward. This week, I was paying attention.

It rained. Hard. For days. Cold, windy, muddy, gray. My daughter summed it up best when she said, “It’s rainy. We can’t go outside. It’s yucky.” I felt that. It was one of those weeks where the gloom wasn’t just outside—it settled in. The kind where even our dog didn't want to go outside. The kind where someone mentions summer and you think, What’s summer? It’s 37 degrees. Hope felt far away.

And then it stormed.

Late Thursday night and into Friday morning, thunder cracked so loud the windows shook. Hail pelted the roof. It felt like the grand finale of everything that had been sprinkling all week. Greeting someone on Friday morning, they asked how my day was going. I shook out my dripping umbrella and said, “I’m ready for all this to be done.” The person looked out the window and simply said, “Well, the sun is out now.” And sure enough, it was—bright and bold and beautiful, casting light on the rain-soaked scene outside. Without thinking, I chuckled and said, “I guess that’s how the grass gets greener.”

And just like that, I heard it. My own words.

That’s how the grass gets greener.

It stuck with me. Because I’ve been stuck. Actually, I am stuck. Caught in the limbo between what was and what’s next. I’ve been asking myself—"what now? How do I move forward?" And I know I’m not alone. So many of us are standing in this same in-between space, wondering what’s on the other side of transition.

Some life transitions are chosen—graduations, weddings, new dream jobs. Others arrive uninvited—layoffs, losses, breakups, betrayals, deaths. But chosen or not, transitions have one thing in common: they’re uncomfortable. Change stirs things up. It disrupts. It disorients. And it often forces us to grow in ways we weren’t planning for.

But here’s where we come back to the grass.

Growth doesn’t happen where its comfortable. It happens in the mud. In the rain. In the aftermath of the storm. It happens when the ground is soaked and soft enough to let something new take root. So today, let's talk about personal growth. Not in the Pinterest-perfect, inspirational quote, neatly packaged kind of way. But in the real way—the muddy way—the way that looks like starting over, questioning everything, and somehow still moving forward.

What is personal growth, and why does it matter?

Personal growth—sometimes called personal development—isn’t about reinventing yourself or becoming some idealized version of who you “should” be. It’s about expanding your capacity to live a meaningful, value-aligned life. It’s not self-improvement for its own sake; it’s about fostering wellbeing, agency, and purpose. And often, it’s born from discomfort.

Growth supports our most fundamental psychological needs: our desire to connect with others, a sense of having control and choice in our lives, and a belief that we’re capable and have a purpose. When we tend to these needs, we don’t just survive—we flourish. We shift from withering into a state of thriving. Of hope. Of becoming.

But let’s not sugarcoat it—growth is hard. It requires motivation, reflection, and discomfort. It means sitting in the unknown. Letting go of old narratives. Facing our own patterns and choosing to move through them instead of staying put.

That’s where Positive Psychology comes in.

Positive Psychology is the scientific study of what helps people, communities, and systems thrive—not just cope or survive. Born out of a desire to balance psychology’s traditional focus on pathology, Martin Seligman (then president of the APA) proposed in the late '90s that we stop asking only, “What’s wrong?” and start asking, “What’s going right—and how can we build on it?”

Despite the name, Positive Psychology isn’t about toxic positivity. It doesn’t ask us to ignore pain or pretend everything’s fine. It doesn’t bypass trauma or dismiss real suffering. Instead, it offers a framework—a lens for understanding wellbeing, meaning, engagement, and growth. It’s not a replacement for therapy; it’s a complement.

Three Ways We Try to Live "The Good Life"

When life feels heavy, or when we’re trying to find our footing again, it’s natural to wonder: What’s going to help me feel like myself? What’s going to make this life feel more livable, maybe even good again?

Early in his research, Seligman broke this down into three general “paths” people take in their pursuit of a good life. And when I read about them, it honestly just made sense. Most of us lean on all three at different times without even realizing it. Sometimes, naming them helps us see where we’re thriving, and where we might need to shake the dirt up.

The Pleasant Life: This is the one we tend to chase first. It’s about feeling good—about joy, laughter, comfort, relaxation, pleasure. Think warm drinks, belly laughs, good music, cozy nights, and meals that feel like love. It’s not superficial—these moments matter. They help us breathe. They soften the sharp edges of a hard day.

But they’re also temporary. The sun sets. The candles burn out. The glass empties. And if we’re only chasing "feel-good moments", we might find ourselves needing more and more of them to feel happy. The Pleasant Life is beautiful—and it’s not the whole picture.

The Engaged Life: Then there’s the kind of happiness that doesn’t always look happy from the outside, but feels rich. It’s the feeling you get when you’re in the zone—focused, present, and completely absorbed in something that matters to you. You’re using your strengths. You’re not performing for anyone. You’re just in it.

Maybe it’s when you’re writing, building, running, gardening, parenting, solving a problem, or just sitting in a really good conversation. Time passes weirdly. You forget to check your phone. You stop worrying about how you look or sound. You're absorbed into the moment—and it fills you back up.

Engagement isn’t always relaxing. It asks something of us. But in return, it gives us access to a deeper kind of satisfaction—one rooted in purpose, creativity, and connection to self.

The Meaningful Life: And finally, the kind of happiness that goes beyond us. The kind that comes from knowing that we’re part of something bigger. That our lives matter. That we’re contributing to something meaningful—whether that’s building community, raising a child, showing up for a cause, or simply living in alignment with our values.

The Meaningful Life isn’t always exciting or even fun. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s heavy. But it gives us orientation. A sense of direction. A reason to get out of bed even when it’s hard. It holds us steady when joy feels out of reach and when we’re too tired to be “in the zone.” Meaning reminds us we’re still anchored to something real.

Most of us need all three.

We need to feel good sometimes. We need to feel present and engaged. And we need to feel connected to something that matters.

When we feel off, it’s often because one of these parts is out of balance. Maybe you’ve been trying to push through without pleasure. Maybe you’ve been staying busy, but feel disconnected from meaning. Maybe you’ve been showing up for everyone else and forgot to do something just because it lights you up.

The good news? There is no need to overhaul your life. You just have to pause...and notice. To name what’s missing. And then get curious about how to bring a little more of that piece back into your world.

What Actually Makes Us Well? Enter PERMA.

So here’s the thing—happiness isn’t just about smiling more or “choosing joy.” If it were that easy, none of us would feel stuck. Or burnt out. Or low-level blah without knowing exactly why. That’s where the PERMA model comes in.

Psychologist Martin Seligman developed PERMA as a way to describe what real wellbeing actually looks like—not the curated kind, but the kind that helps us feel like our lives are worth living, even when they’re hard.

PERMA is an acronym, and each letter stands for a piece of the puzzle:

P – Positive Emotions: Not “good vibes only”—just a little more room for joy, gratitude, curiosity, comfort. These aren’t meant to cancel out your hard emotions. They’re just here to remind you that two things can be true: life can be yucky and there are still things that feel good.

E – Engagement: This is "the zone". Flow. The moments when you’re so caught up in something you forget to check your phone. You’re challenged, but not overwhelmed. You’re using your strengths. Whether it’s cooking, painting, running, writing, parenting, or deep-diving into a task at work—these are the moments that fill your tank. Not because they’re always fun, but because they make you feel alive. More on this in a moment...

R – Relationships: When we feel disconnected, everything feels harder. And when we feel known and understood, even the hard stuff softens a little. We need people. Real relationships. The kind where you can show up a little muddy, where there’s laughter and honesty and an authentic sense of “I’ve got you.”

M – Meaning: Meaning isn’t about having some giant purpose or a five-year plan. It’s about knowing that what you do matters. That you’re part of something bigger than just getting through the day. Meaning can come from parenting, creativity, community, spirituality, activism—anything that reminds you your life has weight.

A – Accomplishment: This one gets a bad rap in self-help culture, but hear me out. Accomplishment isn’t about perfection—it’s about progress. It’s about setting goals and seeing them through. It's the feeling of, I did that. That little jolt of confidence when you remember you're capable.

When You’re In Flow, You Know

There’s this thing that happens when I’m writing for The Candid Counselor. Or mapping out new ideas. Or connecting with my daughter, mother to child. Or sitting in the zone with a client, completely attuned. My brain clicks into this hum—like every neuron is vibrating but my body is incredibly still. My thoughts are clear, my jaw softens, and my shoulders drop. It’s like honey in my head. Warm. Slow. Steady.

That’s Flow.

And if you’ve ever felt it, even once, you know exactly what I mean.

Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (yeah, say that ten times fast) coined the term flow to describe this exact state—when we’re deeply immersed in what we’re doing. Focused. Present. Energized. It’s not quite happiness, but something deeper. It's alignment. It’s presence. It’s peace without passivity.

Flow happens when your skills are being stretched just enough—not too easy, not too hard. You’re challenged, but not overwhelmed. Think of a writer on a roll, a painter lost in brushstrokes, a dancer in rhythm, a parent locked into play. Time bends. Self-doubt fades. You’re not chasing a result—you’re just in it, for the sake of being in it.

And before anyone gets discouraged, flow isn’t reserved for the elite or the ultra-creative. It’s not just for athletes or artists or "the best". It can show up in everyday moments—if we know how to feel it.

In a garden, hands in the dirt. In the kitchen, lost in a recipe. On a walk, where your body moves without thinking. In a deep conversation where nothing else exists but the person in front of you.

Flow is a state of being. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. It doesn’t beg for attention. It just is—like a gentle current moving through you.

Finding Your Flow

If you want the science-y part, here it is: Flow happens at the intersection of high skill and high challenge. Too easy? You’re bored. Too hard? You’re anxious. But when you hit that sweet spot—when what you’re doing is right at the edge of your ability—that’s when flow shows up.

It’s also intrinsically rewarding, which means you're not doing it for praise or money or recognition. You’re doing it because doing it feels good. That alone is the reward.

We live in a world that wants us to multitask ourselves to death. That pushes us to be productive, but not necessarily present. And when we’re always half-checked-out—doomscrolling, inbox juggling, overextending—we lose access to the kind of experiences that actually restore us.

Flow is restorative. It grounds us. It helps regulate emotion. It reconnects us to joy, purpose, creativity, and confidence. And it reminds us—maybe more than anything—that we’re still here. Still whole. Still capable of feeling deeply alive.

You probably already know the places where flow tends to find you. Those sacred little pockets of time where you forget to eat, forget to look at the clock, forget to second-guess yourself. If you don’t know yet, that’s okay. Start small. Ask yourself:

When do I feel most like myself?

What was I doing the last time I felt in my zone?

Where in my life do I feel challenged, but not overwhelmed?

What’s something I could lose hours doing, even if no one ever saw the result?

So if you’ve been feeling stuck, flat, or disconnected—don’t just ask "what’s wrong with me?". Ask where the flow went. And then gently, with curiosity, go looking for it. Because when you find it? You’ll know.

The Nature of Flow

I think about water a lot when I think about flow. And about growth.

The way a stream doesn’t force its way forward—it follows the path carved out for it, even if that path twists, slows, floods, or disappears underground for a while. Even if that path is unpredictable. Flow is patient like that. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t demand. It shows up when the conditions are right—when we’re engaged, challenged, curious, and present enough to receive it.

And that’s what this space—all these pieces I’m trying to put together—is for me. This is a space where I feel flow. Where the ideas move through me like a current. Where my brain hums and my jaw softens and time folds in on itself. It’s where I stop performing and just create. Where I get to think deeply, feel fully, and try to make sense of it all—out loud, with all of you.

Flow is natural. It’s instinctive. It mirrors how things grow in the wild—not perfectly, not predictably, but persistently.

Which brings me back to that grass.

That’s the heart behind New Growth—this new chapter in my professional life and in my personal one, too. It’s not about glossy perfection or overnight transformation. It’s about honoring the mess, the mud, and the movement. It’s about letting growth come in its own time—and being willing to notice it when it does.

Because that’s where the grass really does get greener.

Not because we force it. But because we keep tending to it. We create the conditions. We move with the current instead of against it. We trust that after "all this rain", something new will grow.

And eventually, it will 🌱