From the memoirs of Billie Harper, looking back on her learning journey.
Resilience wasn’t what they thought it was—not toughness, not stoicism, not the ability to carry on without pause. It was something gentler, more enduring. Something alive.
I still trawl through the journals. I read stories of people who didn’t just rebuild—they reimagined. Not through grand gestures, but in the quiet courage of beginning again. Composting ruined soil. Mending what could be mended. Listening—to the land, to grief, to one another. These were the acts that stitched life back together.
Resilience lived in the women who kept planting when the weather stayed wild. In communities that gathered anyway, even when there was little to offer but company. It hummed in small choices—sharing water, saving seeds, showing up for circle when your heart still ached.
Mum said, “Resilience is returning—to yourself, to others, to the earth. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”
I remember the big storm that tore through our garden, leaving it flattened, waterlogged, broken. Six of our vegetable and herb beds—gone overnight. I watched as mum scanned the damage, her shoulders slumped. Gardening was her solace—her way of giving and receiving care. I could see the grief in her hands as she knelt and sifted through the wreckage. We saved what we could. And we would rebuild.
That moment has stayed with me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was ordinary. Just one of many times we chose to begin again. Mum’s hands in the soil, the garden slowly repaired, new life sprouting where old had been lost.
We learned that resilience isn’t grit or bravado. It’s the quiet decision to begin again. To believe that what matters can still grow—even after loss.
Resilience, I’ve learned, is less about bouncing back—and more about growing through.