This summer, I picked up Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl. At first, I thought it was just a scientist’s memoir: labs, soil samples, and tree rings. But what I found instead was a story about persistence, scarcity, and the people who make survival possible. It felt strikingly familiar.
Jahren writes about the hidden lives of plants: how seeds wait for the right moment to break through the soil, how roots grow quietly in the dark, how trees endure long winters and storms but still leaf out each spring. She braids those images with her own struggles, chasing grants, facing setbacks, and leaning on her lab partner Bill when resources ran thin. Her story echoed my own.
In high school, scholarships covered tuition but little else. To get by, I worked summers as a house helper and babysitter. I’ll always be grateful to my English teacher, Ma’am Ellen, who gave me those opportunities and, more importantly, believed in the seed in me long before I could. She never asked for anything in return; she simply gave me a chance to grow.
Later, in college, Sr. Vic became another light in my path. I began at a small school in Bulan, working with the Daughters of Charity. When she was transferred to Sacred Heart College in Lucena, she brought me along. As a Vincentian scholar, I lived on campus, waking at 5 a.m. for “first report,” cleaning offices before classes. I rotated through assignments in the registrar’s, principal’s, even the president’s office. It wasn’t easy balancing work and study, but I had a community behind me. Sr. Vic, the Daughters of Charity, my fellow Vincentians, and the Sacred Heart College family gave me roots. Their faith nourished me, and because of them, I pushed through.
Like Jahren, I learned early that growth is never instant. Seeds don’t sprout on command; they wait. My own roots were strengthened by hard work but also by the quiet generosity of those who trusted me to grow. Their faith wasn’t wasted. I finished, I became a teacher, and now I try to pass that same faith on to my students.
That’s why Lab Girl resonated so deeply. Isn’t that the story of teaching? Some students bloom quickly, others take years, and many grow in directions we never expect. Our job is to keep tending, to offer light, water, encouragement, and to trust that even when growth isn’t visible, it’s happening beneath the surface.
I think of one student who rarely spoke in class. For months, I wondered if I was reaching them at all. Years later, I received an email from that same student in college, thanking me for teaching them how to wonder and ask questions. The seed had always been there. It just needed time.
Jahren also writes honestly about hidden struggles: the scramble for funding, the long hours, the invisible labor that keeps a lab alive. Teachers know that world well. We stretch small budgets, apply for grants (thank you, DonorsChoose!), spend evenings shaping lessons, and pour ourselves into our students, often without recognition. And yet, like her, we keep showing up because we believe in what might take root.
What I admired most is how she ties survival to persistence. Trees endure storms and winters, but each spring, they leaf out again. My own story taught me the same truth: it’s endurance, not ease, that shapes us. Teaching is no different. Every September, we begin again. Some years feel abundant, others test our patience, but still we return with hope.
I see that same lesson on trails and in travel. Hiking reminds me of patience, resilience, and renewal. Nature keeps teaching me what I try to teach my students: growth takes time, struggle is part of the process, and persistence carries us forward.
Reading Lab Girl reminded me that resilience isn’t loud. It’s quiet and steady, like roots spreading underground. It’s choosing to stay, to tend, and to trust that growth will come, even if unseen.
At its heart, Lab Girl isn’t just a scientist’s memoir. It’s a meditation on persistence. And in many ways, it’s my story too.
As this school year begins, I hold that reminder close: some seeds will sprout quickly, others will wait, and some will surprise me years later. My role is to keep tending, to teach, to listen, to stay curious, and, like the trees in Jahren’s book, to keep reaching for the light, season after season.
This reflection is also a quiet thank you to Ma’am Ellen, Sr. Vic, the Daughters of Charity, and the Sacred Heart College community for believing in the seed in me long before it bloomed. Their faith reminds me that none of us grow alone. As I step into a new school year, I carry their example with me: to keep tending, to keep encouraging, and to trust that with care and patience, the seeds we nurture, in ourselves and in others, will one day take root.
Stride & Wonder 