When Big Trees Fall: What the Pacific Northwest Taught Me About Transition, Strength, and New Growth

On our recent trip through the Pacific Northwest, I was struck by the forests.

Towering evergreens stood like living monuments—strong, steady, seemingly permanent.

But scattered among them were giants that had fallen in storms.

Massive trunks stretched across the forest floor, roots exposed, earth still clinging to them.

At first glance, it felt like loss.

How could something so strong, so established, so magnificent be brought down?

But the forest tells a different story.

When a big tree falls, space opens.

Light reaches the forest floor.

New seedlings get their chance.

Ferns unfurl.

Moss spreads.

Hidden life begins again.

And when the roots are exposed, you can finally see what made that tree strong in the first place.

You see the complexity beneath the surface—the wide network, the stones and boulders with the roots wrapped around for leverage.

You can better understand the unseen architecture that allowed it to stand tall for so long.

Even in falling, the tree still gives.

It's roots become shelter.

Birds nest inside it. Insects feed ecosystems.

There is new strength born from its strength.

It becomes what foresters call a nurse log—supporting new vegetation and helping the next generation grow. Can we call it a forest coach?

I’ve been thinking about how much this mirrors career transitions—and especially the transition into retirement or a new chapter of work.

Many high achievers spend decades growing tall. Building expertise. Creating identities around achievement, responsibility, and usefulness.

Standing strong through market shifts, family demands, leadership challenges, and changing seasons.

Then comes a moment of change.

A layoff.

A retirement decision.

A health scare.

A desire for more freedom.

A realization that the life structure that once fit no longer does. It can feel like a collapse. But can we reframe it into an opening?

Arthur Brooks, in From Strength to Strength, writes about the need to shift from one kind of strength to another as we age—from striving, accumulation, and proving ourselves toward wisdom, contribution, connection, and meaning.

That isn’t a decline. It’s evolution. The forest knows this.

What if this next season of your life is not about standing taller—but finding ways to let in more light?

What if your visible success has been supported all along by roots you haven’t fully appreciated yet: resilience, relationships, judgment, courage, faith, adaptability?

What if the experiences that shaped you—even the hard ones, even the boulders—were not obstacles, but anchors?

And what if your next chapter is less about producing and more about nourishing?

So here are a few questions I’m carrying home from the Pacific Northwest:

• Where are you holding on too hard—and becoming brittle?

• What role, identity, schedule, or expectation may need to loosen?

• Where do you need to create space for new light?

• What strengths beneath the surface are ready to be used differently now?

• How can your experience become a nurse log for others—through mentoring, volunteering, coaching, creating, or simply being present?

• Where can you create life and growth from all you’ve built?

Sometimes what looks like an ending is the forest making room for renewal.

Sometimes strength is not staying upright forever.

Sometimes strength is what you make possible next. My coaching calendar is full, and I'm building a waitlist. If you’re planning to refine your executive presence, prepare for retirement, or tackle a leadership challenge, we can schedule time to get you into the next open spots.

Schedule an exploratory call!