It's not about the tree

On collapse, caretaking, and carving out space for something better

There’s a twisty-turny tree that overlooks our patio. A tree that’s decades old, with a perfectly sized hole where a little gnome statue lives. A tree that cradles our string lights and carries our wind chimes. That stretches a thick, low branch over the backyard gate — like it’s waving hello and goodbye to everyone who passes.

It’s a tree that shades our ferns and caladiums. That cloaks the picnic table and patio chairs in cool shadow. The one that stands in just the right spot to give us privacy from the house next door. The tree our daughter and her friends have climbed. The one that’s drawn passing comments over the years: Wow, what a cool tree. That tree sure has character.

That tree?

It’s being cut down today. Branches, trunk, and leaves — gone. Stump ground down.

Soon after we bought this house, I started learning the names of plants. I’d wander the yard, phone in hand, snapping pictures and uploading them to image searches. Mulberry (good, but messy). Tree of Heaven (bad; smells like rancid peanut butter). Yarrow (lovely; no complaints). I learned what to weed, when to water, and how to let Mother Nature do her thing.

Then, there’s the chinaberry tree — the cool tree, the one with character, the one that defines our patio space. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve looked it up, each time hoping for something different — an arborist singing its praises, a proud homeowner sharing tips, some tiny bit of reassurance. But the internet is united in disdain: pain in the ass. Toxic mess. Impossible to kill.

One Reddit thread always pops up. A user posted a photo of a Chinaberry in bloom, with an unsuspecting caption: I am in LOVE with this tree 💕 What is it called? The answers came swift and stern. It’s invasive. It’s a nuisance. It’s a nightmare.

“mother f***ing, piece of ***t, god awful chinaberry,” someone wrote.

Another response, a bit more helpful:

“These trees are not only bad for the environment but dangerous. They tend to grow really tall, then die back and start growing again out of the base, leaving a lot of dead wood up high. If one is anywhere near a structure you care about, now is the time to remove and replace it. Sorry.”

I’ve read that comment more than once. I tried to ignore it.

I’ve also lost track of how many times I’ve searched for silver linings about the current state of the U.S. government — a historian offering context, an activist providing hope, a Substack writer cutting through the noise. Sometimes I find those things. Mostly, I find doom.

not only bad for the environment but dangerous

I shut my phone. I go to bed.

I dream about the tree.

“Hey, are you okay?” Billy asks one afternoon. I’m typing at my laptop, concern etched across my face.

“I’m just sad about the tree,” I say.

We both know that’s not true. We start pulling at what’s really going on — the tension between us, the mounting stress, the unspoken resentments. Before we know it, we’re in a full-blown argument.

It wasn’t about the tree. Or maybe it was.

I stand in the backyard, trying to imagine the space without the Chinaberry’s canopy. I look at the plants we chose for their ability to tolerate low light. I wonder how many will wither in the sun.

I try to think of solutions — a shade sail? a pergola? a new tree? — but it’s too hot, and my brain is mush. I think instead about how much hotter it’s going to get, not only without this tree, but in the years to come. I think about heat waves and fast-rising floods, wildfires and slow-moving hurricanes. My thoughts spiral. I start to sweat. I go inside and cool down with a glass of water.

That night, the One Big Beautiful Bill passes. Among the many things I hate about this legislation — the deep inequities, the environmental rollbacks, the hypocrisy of it all — I hate its stupid name. It feels unserious. Like a cruel joke.

Before bed, I stand at the back door, the one we installed with a window that allowed us to see the tree. I stare. I sigh. I feel so very sad.

I’ve written plenty about impermanence — how everything changes and nothing lasts. Still, there are things I unknowingly counted on. Things I treated like constants.

Trees, as silly as it may sound, were one of them.

Atlanta is a tree-filled haven. The city in the forest. Our canopy is vast. Our trees are giants. They define our neighborhoods, our skylines, our seasons. They offer shade and comfort. And when one comes down — from disease, from storms, from development — I gasp. I lose my breath, just for a moment. I’d assumed that tree would outlast me.

I felt the same way about our democracy.

Voting rights. Checks and balances. Freedom of the press. The systems I learned about in school felt time-tested, steady, unshakable. I believed they’d always hold — so much so that I never really considered otherwise.

The roots of this country don’t go as deep as I once thought.

The older I get, the more I see the flaws I once missed. I learn what I wasn't taught in school. I understand how the systems I never questioned don’t support everyone equally. I pay attention to the uncomfortable truths I once ignored.

Once you see it, it’s impossible to unsee. Up close, the cracks are undeniable.

I check the news. Then I check my body: tense, braced. I read headlines about climate protections falling. Scan updates on ongoing wars. Watch a few seconds of yet another ICE raid before I furiously swipe it away, as if ending the video might undo the harm, might stop the fear from settling in my gut.

It doesn’t. I shut the news. I obsess over the tree instead.

how much does a pergola cost

The answer is too much.

It’s all too much.

I’ve long felt like the tree’s caretaker. In the spring, I swept up its petals — thousands upon thousands of delicate lavender blooms, day after day. In the fall, I cleaned up an avalanche of leaves, twigs, and poisonous berries. I swept and swept, trying to find meditation in the motion. When children played nearby, I watched like a hawk. Don’t eat the berries. Yes, it’s a cool tree.

In the summer, I braced for the whitefly infestations. I applied soapy solutions, monitored its health. But I hadn’t braced for falling limbs. That was new.

When the first heavy branch crashed down during a storm, we had a choice: remove just that limb or the entire tree? Just the branch, I insisted. We asked the arborists to trim the others while they were here.

They couldn’t. The tree, they said, had become too brittle to prune safely. “I’m sorry,” the receptionist wrote, attaching the $566 bill.

I knew our time was running out. I hoped we had a year. Time to save, time to plan.

Two weeks later, another storm. An even bigger branch crashed onto the patio.

The tree has to go.

Democracy is crumbling. The tree is dying. Everything feels like it’s falling apart.

It’s easy to lose hope. But here’s what I’m trying to remember: If we give up on the things we love — even when they demand more than we want to give — where does that leave us?

Sooner or later, the light will break through. The sky will fill in. The risk will pass. We’ll get a break from the things that were toxic, the branches that turned out to be weaker than we thought. Our breath will catch — just for a moment.

And in that clearing, something new will grow.

I try to remember this too: Fighting for something I care about makes me love it even more.

Sometimes, fighting means letting go so that something better can take root. Other times, it means refusing to look away. Not giving up. Enlisting others to join the battle.

We work with what we have.

It’s an imperfect mess, but it’s ours.

xoxo
KHG