It started as an ordinary walk.
On a soft spring day, we chose Parc de Saint-Cloud—a place known for its sweeping terraces, quiet pathways, and views that seem to stretch endlessly across the city.
The kind of place where nature and stillness meet.
The trees were just beginning to wake from winter. Flowers were quietly emerging. The air carried that gentle promise that something new was unfolding again.
Four women. Four different nationalities.
Different stories, different accents, different journeys—yet somehow, for two quiet hours, we walked the same path, covering so many thousands of steps.
There was nothing particularly planned about it. Just movement, conversation, and that gentle rhythm of footsteps that allows thoughts to freely rise without being forced.
But before the walk, there was a pause.
Waiting and Watching
I stood outside the neighbourhood high school, a spot we had agreed on, waiting for one of my friends. Fifteen minutes passed slowly.
Students began to arrive.
Some walked in hurried steps, as though time was chasing them. Others lingered, unbothered. Small groups gathered—laughing, talking, basking in that familiar space between childhood and adulthood.
I noticed, almost in passing, how easily certain habits like vaping seemed to blend into their routines; almost everyone vaped, or so it seemed—vapes held as casually as phones or backpacks.
It made me pause for a moment.
And then, quietly, my thoughts turned inward.
What would I say to my younger self if I stood again in her world today?
Would she listen?
Would she even understand the weight of what I know now?
I didn’t have clear answers. Just questions. And perhaps, in that moment, that was just enough.
The Walk That Became a Mirror
When my friend arrived, we joined the others and began walking.
Conversation flowed easily—sometimes deep, sometimes light, sometimes interrupted by silence that didn’t need filling.
There is something sacred about walking with people who don’t need you to perform, people you share values and common ground with.
We walked through beauty in both quiet amazement and spontaneous bursts of delight we couldn’t quite contain.
Trees just beginning to come awake from winter.
Flowers carefully arranged, yet effortlessly alive.
Open spaces that seemed to breathe.
And then—we saw it.
The Tree That Spoke Without Words
A row of trees, dark, aged, and almost rugged in appearance.
And yet—bursting with pink blossoms.
Not at the tips of branches.
Not where you would expect life to show.
But directly from the trunk.
From the roughest, oldest parts.
It stopped me. It stopped all four of us.
There was something deeply symbolic about it.
This tree—often called the Judas tree as I later got to find out—carries a story of betrayal, sorrow, regret, and redemption.
And yet here it was, doing something completely different from its name.
Blooming. Flourishing Boldly. Unexpectedly.
In that moment, I was reminded of a scripture that has always carried a quiet promise:
“The desert and the parched land will be glad;
The wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like a lily, it will burst into bloom;
it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy…”
— Isaiah 35:1–2
It felt like I was witnessing that promise in real time.
What If Growth Doesn’t Always Look the Way We Expect?
Standing there, I couldn’t help but connect everything:
The fleeting thoughts from earlier in front of the high school.
The quiet questions I carried.
The gentle rhythm of our walk.
And this tree—flowering from places that looked worn and tired.
What if life is like that?
What if growth doesn’t come from the neat, planned, polished parts of us—but from the places we once thought were too broken, too old, too insufficient, inexperienced, unskilled, and too far gone?
What if the very areas we try to hide…
are the ones capable of producing the most beauty in our lives?
Looking Back Without Regret
I thought again about my younger self.
Would I have done things differently?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Because the truth is—we often grow through things and experiences, not around them.
Wisdom rarely arrives before experience.
And experience is rarely tidy.
So perhaps the question is not:
“What would I change?”
But rather:
“What has it grown in me?”
Four Women, One Path
As we continued our walk, I looked at the women beside me.
Different backgrounds. Different continents. Different stories.
And yet—here we were.
Still growing.
Still becoming.
Still blooming, in our own ways.
Not perfectly.
Not predictably.
But beautifully.
My Reflection
That day didn’t begin as anything special.
Just a walk.
Just a wait in front of a school.
Just a passing observation.
But somehow, it became a reminder:
That life speaks—if we slow down enough to notice.
That growth is often hidden in unexpected places.
And that like that tree…
We, too, can bloom from places no one thought anything good could come from.
— IDA
Ihuoma Dapo Ajayi 