The Season of Pruning: When the Most High Cuts So You Can Grow

There is an ancient rhythm to the way women lose things—quietly, instinctively, as if some part of us has always known that sacrifice comes before birth, shedding before song. In the ancient scrolls and sacred songs, the righteous woman walks humbly through the ruins of what once was—not because she is frail, but because she understands that even ashes are holy when they come from the hand of the Most High. She loses the child she once was. She loses the lover who could not stay. She loses the version of herself that clung too tightly to what no longer fed her. And yet, from those very places of absence, something greater begins to stir. In the hollows left behind by loss, she does not wither—she roots. And in time, from that dark and emptied ground, she rises—not with what she had, but with what she was always meant to hold.

Pruning, too, is a kind of sacred loss—a gardener’s ritual of trust. To the untrained eye, it looks like harm: healthy branches clipped, thick vines thinned, green abundance reduced to naked form. But to those who understand the soil, pruning is not destruction—it’s direction. Just as the daughter of God must release what is no longer hers to carry, the plant must be cut back to be called forward. The Most High, in all His/Her wisdom, tends to our souls like a vineyard—cutting not to kill, but to shape; not to punish, but to prepare. For in every cut, there is a promise: that what is taken will make room for what is destined to bloom.

The Most High has always spoken in the language of gardens.

From the beginning of Genesis to the prophets of old, the Most High has used the rhythm of nature to mirror our spiritual lives. He/She spoke of vines, fig trees, branches, and harvests—not to only make Scripture poetic, but prophetic and relatable. Just look at  the roots running through your hands.

In Isaiah 5, He/She speaks of a vineyard planted with care—dug, cleared, and filled with choice vines—yet it bore wild grapes, not what He/She intended. This teaches us that even when we appear to be rooted, we can still produce what is unholy if we’re not aligned with His/Her will.

In contrast, Jeremiah 17 paints a picture of a righteous one planted by waters, unmoved even in drought—a reminder that stability isn’t about circumstance, but about where and how you’re rooted.

And in Psalm 1, we’re shown that fruitfulness has a season. There’s a time to bear, but there’s also a time to rest, to be nourished, and to let the roots deepen in quiet.

Before a plant is ever pruned, it goes through a sacred and silent process. 

First, the seed is buried—placed in the dark where no one can see its potential. Then, it breaks. That breaking is not the end, but the beginning of becoming. From there, it sprouts. It reaches. It leans into the light. It grows full—leafy, vibrant, alive.

And just when it seems like it has finally reached its fullness, the pruning shears come. Not as a punishment, but as a preparation. Because the Gardener sees what we cannot—He/She knows that to carry more, something must be cut. And that is the holy paradox: He/She trims what is thriving, not because it’s failing… but because it’s ready.

So what does pruning look like in your life, sis?

It’s when the Most High starts cutting off the branches that no longer serve your divine purpose. And trust me, it’s not always obvious. Here’s what you might notice:

• You lose friends, family ties grow quiet, and people you thought were lifers begin to fall off.

• Your career path starts to feel unstable—maybe you get laid off, or the passion dries up.

• Your confidence in your purpose starts to shake. What once made sense now feels blurry.

• Old habits or comfort zones become too tight to live in. They itch your spirit.

• Your romantic life may be disrupted. That “almost” may get pruned too, even if it felt like “the one.”

• And spiritually? You may feel distant from God—not realizing He’s/She’s actually closer than ever, just moving in silence.

Personally, I had to let go of the things that once felt like my lifelines: the blunt that eased my anxiety, the friendships that fed my flesh but starved my spirit, the organizations I once admired that masked hypocrisy with holy slogans. And maybe hardest of all—I had to cut off my own self-righteousness. That subtle pride that made me think I knew better than others, or that my walk with the Most High made me somehow more worthy and intelligent than the next.

I lost my job. I lost my best friends. I lost my sense of self. But, I promise what comes next is everything you have prayed for. 

But why does pruning have to hurt?

Because pruning feels like loss… but it produces life. It redirects your energy toward what truly matters. Just like a vine, if you're left to grow wild and unchecked, you’ll have lots of leaves, but no fruit. That fruit is your obedience, your purpose, your legacy. And sometimes, the very things we love must be trimmed so we can carry the weight of what’s next.

How to Embrace Your Pruning Season–even though it’s hard!

In seasons of loss, it’s easy to feel abandoned—but pruning is not punishment. It’s preparation. Like Israel in the wilderness or Job in his sorrow, we are refined through what’s removed. The Most High isn’t breaking you—He’s building what’s holy in you. 

Here’s how to walk through it with grace:

• Gratitude. Thank the Most High even when it stings. Every loss is divine surgery, every delay a redirection. Gratitude is your offering in the dark.

• Humility. You’re not being punished, you’re being purified. Let go of control and open your hands. The branch doesn’t resist the Gardener—it yields.

• Reverence. Keep praying. Keep obeying. Keep worshipping. Even in silence, Yah is working. Reverence roots you when everything else feels stripped away.

• Embracing. You may notice new friendships, opportunities, and alignment happens in the midst of your loss. Embracing the new can help ease the loss of the old.

The pain is real, but so is the promise. Pruning is a holy love language. And, the Most High only prunes what He/She plans to use.

This is your invitation to stop mourning what was, and start preparing for what’s about to bloom.

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