Lately, I’ve been wondering why beginnings feel so hard. So discouraging. So unimpressive.

I think most of us have, at some point in life, passed through that odd phase of seeming nothingness—when you’ve already planted the seeds, but on the surface, nothing really changes. Days pass. Weeks pass. Months pass. Sometimes years, or even decades.

How uncomfortable! No, in fact, this phase can be incredibly frustrating. It is a period of consistently putting in the work and showing up without necessarily seeing progress, when nothing seems to happen. It can be "damn" discouraging. In this phase, motivation can only be drawn from hope, discipline, and persistence—hope that life has already begun “in” the underground. Hope that invisible roots are forming, stretching downward in search of water, minerals, and anchoring what will later stand. Discipline to consistently take the tiniest aligned actions. Persistence to keep the ball rolling, no matter what. Because let’s be honest, it is damn difficult to draw motivation from what you can’t see or to keep momentum where there is not even the tiniest sign of progress.

So today I paused to reflect on my “messy waiting middle”. To intentionally slow down and reconsider how nature actually works.

An apparent truth that occurred to me is a simple “truth” I assume every wise gardener knows: that an acorn needs nourishment, light, and patience. In a natural, wild environment, an oak sapling quickly develops a single, delicate taproot, while the aboveground portion remains either invisible, small, or almost unimpressive. But with time, that thin, hair-like root penetrates deep into the earth and spreads far beyond the visible height of the tree itself. This phase, though simple on the surface, is fundamental: without the depth of the oak's roots, its height remains almost meaningless. Here is the apparent reason you are probably already aware of: when this “slow” process is rushed or interrupted, the tree struggles and grows more slowly. Eventually, its weak roots break, marking the immature end of the oak’s life.

You see, when the storms come-and they always do- only deep-rooted oaks survive. Without groundedness, without deep roots, it is easy to break.

Life follows the same law. Things that matter most need time.

There are seasons when all we seem to do is plant—tirelessly learning without seeing fruit. Doing self-work and healing with no visible change, before and after. Building skills, values, self-trust, and resilience that no one applauds. Externally, it appears as if “one” is doing nothing, while growth remains modest, reaching only 30 cm in height.

This is usually the stage when many people give up on you or at least step back. They doubt your idea or dream. Some gently suggest you should be more rational and realistic. And then, inside, a small voice begins to speak. It creeps in, grows louder, and you begin to doubt the process, too. You compare yourself with others who already look taller.

In my almost nine months of work, which still feel small and mostly unseen, this is what I keep reminding myself:

There is time for everything.

A time to plant and wait

A time to water and prune

A time to let unseen roots grow in depth.

Another period of limited growth: 10, 20, and 30 cm.

Then  a time of sudden exponential height

And then eventually a time for results and harvest.

What we need to remember is that, however difficult it may feel or seem at times, “invisible work matters more than the visible height.” The education, change, (self)leadership skills you are building, or personal development often seem to progress slowly. Efforts don’t always show quick proof that they are working. However, that does not necessarily mean they are ineffective; they may be in the foundation-laying phase. If we hang in long enough, this "nothingness phase" does its job: old bad habits and limiting beliefs fade, making way for new, empowering ones to form and cement. Skills accumulate, and resilience shoots to the heights. Our stamina, endurance and character take another form. And just like that, without noticing when it happened, you are standing a little taller and growing higher, like a steadfast-rooted oak.

And who knows? Maybe if you hang around the barber long enough, you might not only get a haircut but also walk out a slightly different person from the one who walked in.