My friends and I were chatting about life today nothing deep, just our usual banter. The kind of conversation that skims the surface without ever touching anything real. We were laughing, teasing, flinging half-serious complaints into the air…
Until the room went quiet.
One of my friends leaned back, looked at us with that unsettling calm people get when they're about to drop wisdom they don't even realize is wisdom, and said:
"If you're going to talk about patience or resilience, you have to talk about the bamboo."
The sentence came out of nowhere and I found it difficult to piece it into our jokes.
I mean, I knew bamboo was strong. I knew it was resilient, I had heard about it countless times, but it didn't really hit until that moment.
But I didn't think about how its story was a quiet sermon about patience, persistence, and the unseen work happening beneath the surface.
The kind of work we never applaud, because no one sees it… not even us.
For five whole years, a bamboo plant grows only its roots underground.
No sprout.
No stem.
No timid little green shoot to reassure you that your effort matters.
Just soil that refuses to respond.
Imagine that…
You plant a bamboo seed.
You water it.
You show up every morning to check for progress.
But, you see nothing.
Not in a week.
Not in a month.
Not even in a year.
Just silence.
Five whole years of silence.
Five years of "maybe I'm wasting my time."
Five years of "everyone else is moving forward but me."
Five years of staring at dirt and feeling foolish for believing it could ever become anything.
But underground?
A different story is unfolding.
The bamboo is building a root system so deep, so extensive, and so strong that when it finally rises, it will grow up to ninety feet in six weeks.
Six weeks… after five years of absolutely nothing above ground.
And the moment that truth hit me, it hit hard:
The bamboo never apologizes for taking its time.
It never rushes because other plants are sprouting faster.
It never feels ashamed for growing where no one can see.
It doesn't explain itself to the gardener.
Some plants grow, mature, and die. Yet, the bamboo remains underground.
It simply honors its season.
Because real strength is built in places no one claps for.
And maybe, just maybe, you and I are not so different.
That thought reminded me of a story my mentor once told me about a man named Daniel. A story I didn't fully understand back then.
For seven years, everyone thought Daniel was wasting his life.
After college, while his friends were climbing corporate ladders and posting about promotions, Daniel was in his parents' basement working part-time at a bookstore, writing code nobody cared about.
"When will you get a real job?" his aunt asked every Thanksgiving, her concern wrapped in judgment.
"What's your plan here, son?" his dad asked gently, hiding worry the way fathers often do.
Even his siblings doubted him.
His roommate bought a house.
His ex got engaged.
Everyone seemed to be sprouting, growing, thriving.
And Daniel?
Still in that basement.
Still in that bookstore.
Still talking about "his app" like it was destiny instead of delusion.
But while everyone else saw stagnation, Daniel was building roots.
He learned four programming languages.
Taught himself UI design.
Studied human behavior.
Failed endlessly.
Built twelve versions of his product, each one collapsing under its own flaws.
Got rejected by investors.
Started over.
Went deeper.
Strengthening the foundation no one else knew existed.
By year five, he launched.
By year six, he had fifty thousand users.
By year seven, he sold his company for eighteen million dollars.
Ninety feet in six weeks.
And as always, the world applauded the rise but ignored the roots.
"Wow, he must have had lucky break."
"He was at the right place at the right time."
"Must be nice."
As if he hadn't spent seven years underground.
As if he hadn't grown a root system strong enough to carry success without breaking under it.
The bamboo taught me something that softened and sharpened me at the same time:
The growth you can't see is the growth that matters most.
Life sometimes places us in seasons that feel exactly like those five root-building years.
You're praying, working, learning, trying, yet nothing shifts.
Everyone else is sprouting.
You're staring at soil.
It's maddening.
It's humbling.
And it makes you wonder: Is something wrong with me?
But what if that silence isn't punishment?
What if it's protection?
What if it's preparation?
We often give up during our root years.
We compare ourselves.
We panic.
We assume the soil is dead, that our efforts are pointless, that we are falling behind.
So we quit.
We dig up the seed to check its progress.
We abandon the field because nothing seems to be happening.
But roots don't grow for applause.
They grow for stability.
Discipline.
Resilience.
Emotional strength.
Self-control.
Clarity.
Faith.
Maturity.
These aren't results.
They're roots.
And they are the very things that prepare you for heights you can't handle yet.
Growth that lasts is growth that is rooted.
Anything that rises too quickly without depth will collapse under its own success.
That's why bamboo doesn't rush.
Because roots don't make noise, they make meaning.
Roots don't get applause, they make stability.
Roots don't impress anyone online, but without them, you shatter from the first strong wind.
So hear me as I tell you:
Some of your greatest breakthroughs will look sudden to the world.
People will say:
"Wow, you came out of nowhere."
"You blew up overnight."
"You're so lucky."
But you will know the truth.
It wasn't overnight.
It was years underground.
Years of private battles and silent work.
Years of growing roots while everyone else watched your stillness and misunderstood it.
If you're in that season now, if nothing visible is happening, if the timeline makes no sense, if people are questioning your pace, if even you are starting to doubt your own soil, remember the BAMBOO
You are not stuck.
You are not failing.
You are not behind.
You are rooting.
And one day, when your moment comes, you will rise so fast, so tall, so unapologetically that even you will wonder how you grew so quickly.
Not because you rushed.
But because you prepared.
Not because you forced it.
But because you honored your season.
So stand tall, even when you don't feel tall yet.
Stand firm, even when all you see is dirt.
Trust what's happening beneath the surface.
Because when nothing seems to be happening, everything is happening, quietly, faithfully, and deeply.
Just underground.
And right on time.
You may not need to wait five years like the Bamboo, but... Your six weeks are coming.