There was once a seed that fell between two great trees. The trees were called Mother Tree and Father Tree, and they stood tall and proud in the forest. The seed, whose name was Sam, waited between them, hoping for water, for sunlight, for nourishment.
But Mother Tree was busy counting her leaves, making sure each one was perfectly positioned. "When I am done arranging myself," she would say, "then I will see you." Father Tree was busy measuring his height against the other trees. "When I am the tallest in the forest," he would say, "then I will have time for you."
So Sam the seed waited. The rains came, but the great trees' canopies were so thick that only a few drops reached the ground. The sun shone, but their shadows were so long that Sam lived in near-darkness. The greatest hunger was not for water or light, but to be seen. To be known. To be loved for what it was, rather than ignored for what it wasn't.
One day, a wise old badger passed by. "You are wasting away here," she said to Sam. "These trees cannot give you what they do not have themselves."
"But where will I go?" asked Sam. "I am just a seed. I cannot move myself."
"You misunderstand," said the badger. "The journey is not outward, but inward. You must learn to parent yourself."
And so Sam began the strange work of becoming its own mother and father.
First, Sam learned to be its own Mother Tree. This meant learning tenderness. When Sam felt small and afraid, it would whisper to itself: "I see you. You matter. Your feelings are valid." When Sam made mistakes, it learned to say: "It's okay. Everyone struggles. Try again." These were the waters that Mother Tree had never provided.
Then, Sam learned to be its own Father Tree. This meant learning protection. Sam learned to say: "No, that is not good for me. I deserve better." It learned to stand firm when others tried to overshadow it. It built boundaries like strong bark around its tender heart. These were the roots that Father Tree had never helped grow.
As Sam grew, it noticed something remarkable. It was not alone in this work. All through the forest, other seeds and saplings were doing the same—learning to grow themselves because the trees that should have nurtured them could not.
There was Rowan, who had learned to find water in the driest soil. There was Aspen, who had learned to bend in the strongest winds without breaking. There was Willow, who had learned that tears could water roots and make them stronger.
Slowly, tentatively, these self-grown trees began to reach toward one another. Not in the way of the great trees—competitive, measuring, comparing—but in a new way. They shared nutrients through interconnected roots. They created canopies that filtered the harsh sun but let through the gentle light. They became a chosen family, bound not by blood but by understanding.
One day, Mother Tree and Father Tree noticed the grove of unusual trees growing nearby. "What strange trees," said Mother Tree. "They are not properly arranged."
"They will never be tall enough," said Father Tree.
But the chosen family of trees didn't mind. They had learned something the great trees never could: that true strength comes not from standing alone and tall, but from standing together, flexible and resilient. That the deepest roots are those we choose to intertwine with others who understand our journey.
Sam, now grown strong, looked at the trees that had given it life but not nurturing. There was no anger left—only a quiet understanding. They were like wells that appeared deep but had run dry long ago. To continue expecting water from them would have meant dying of thirst.
The parable does not end with Sam confronting the great trees or winning their approval. That was never the point. The victory came earlier, when Sam realized it could give itself what it needed. When it stopped waiting at the feet of those who could not see it, and began the brave work of growing itself.
And in the growing, it found others on the same path. And together, they created what none of them had received: a family that sees, that hears, that nurtures. A family that knows that sometimes the most profound love is not inherited, but built—tender shoot by tender shoot, root by chosen root.
The Koan of the Self-Grown Tree
A student asked the master: "How can I forgive my parents for not seeing me?"
The master replied: "Stop asking the well why it is dry, and learn to find water elsewhere."
"But where shall I find this water?" asked the student.
The master smiled: "First, learn to cry for yourself. Then learn to drink your own tears. Then you will discover there are others doing the same, and together you will create rivers where there were only deserts."
On Chosen Family and Self-Parenting
The concept of chosen family has roots in many traditions, particularly within LGBTQ+ communities and among those who have experienced familial estrangement. Research in psychology confirms what this parable illustrates: that secure attachments and nurturing relationships can be formed outside biological families, and that developing self-compassion and self-parenting skills can heal attachment wounds.
The work of reparenting ourselves—learning to provide ourselves the validation, protection and nurturing we didn't receive—is recognized in therapeutic approaches like Internal Family Systems and reparenting techniques. What begins as survival can become the foundation for profound resilience and the capacity to form healthier relationships.