I Didn’t Choose a Word for 2026. But One Found Me Anyway.

At the beginning of this year, I very intentionally did not choose a word.

No theme. No carefully selected word to put at the top of my journal. No declaration of what 2026 was going to become.

I actually wrote about it.

I was entering this year with open hands, and choosing a word felt a little too much like trying to name something God hadn’t revealed yet. I didn’t know what this year would hold. I didn’t know what God would ask of me, what would change, what would grow, or what I might have to release.

So instead of choosing a word, I decided to pay attention.

And now it’s September.

Apparently, a word chose me anyway.

Rooted.

It has shown up so many times this year that at some point I had to stop calling it a coincidence. I’ve preached about being rooted several times. I’ve talked about what happens beneath the surface of our faith—the parts nobody sees, yet somehow hold everything else together. I’ve thought about roots that deepen before anything visible grows. I’ve wrestled with what it means to remain grounded when circumstances around us feel anything but steady.

And then, recently, I got a new Bible.

The cover is beautiful—leatherette with greenery and flowers, the kind of design I was naturally drawn to. But then I learned the name of the cover design: Rooted.

Inspired by Colossians 2:6–7: “As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to walk in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith…”

And I had one of those moments where all I could do was laugh.

Of course it is. Of course the Bible I chose, without intentionally connecting it to everything else God has been weaving through this year, would be called Rooted.

Okay, God. I see it.

And maybe that’s what makes this word feel so different from one I could have chosen for myself in January.

I didn’t go looking for rooted. I kept finding it.

There’s nothing wrong with choosing a word for the year. I’ve done it before, and I love the intention behind it. But I’m beginning to appreciate what happened when I didn’t. I left room to discover instead of decide.

Had I chosen a word in January, I probably would have chosen something that reflected where I wanted to go. Something hopeful. Something ambitious. Something that captured who I hoped I would become by December.

But rooted feels different. Rooted isn’t really about where I’m going. It’s about where I’m planted. And maybe that is exactly what I needed this year.

There have been plenty of moments in 2026 when I’ve wanted clarity about what comes next. I’ve wanted to know what God is doing, where certain paths lead, which opportunities are mine to pursue, and which things I’m supposed to leave behind.

I’ve wanted movement.

Meanwhile, God keeps bringing me back to roots. Deeper before farther. Grounded before growing. Established before expanding.

Maybe I’ve spent so much time asking God, Where are we going?

And He has been asking me, How deep are you willing to grow here?

That might be the hardest part. Roots are hidden. Nobody walks past a beautiful tree and says, “Wow, look at those incredible roots.”

We notice the branches. The leaves. The blossoms. The fruit. We notice everything the roots make possible while rarely seeing the roots themselves.

And I think there are seasons of faith like that. Seasons where we want something visible to prove that growth is happening. We want the new opportunity. The answered prayer. The clear direction. The next open door. The thing we can point toward and say, See? God was doing something.

But sometimes God is doing His deepest work somewhere nobody can see yet. Including us.

Maybe some of the growth of this year won’t show itself for a while. Maybe the prayers, questions, sermons, conversations, disappointments, opportunities, waiting, and discernment have all been pushing roots deeper into soil I didn’t realize God was cultivating.

That changes the way I look at seasons that seem slow.

Hidden growth is still growth.

I think this is the lesson I’m still learning. Being rooted can sound like staying in one place forever. But trees are rooted and still move. Their branches stretch. Their leaves turn toward the light. They bend with the wind. They grow outward and upward. Their roots simply give them somewhere secure to grow from.

Maybe rootedness isn’t God telling me I can’t move. Maybe it’s God making sure that when I do, I know what holds me.

Colossians doesn’t stop with being rooted. It says to continue walking in Christ—rooted and built up in Him. There is movement and rootedness in the same passage. I love that.

My faith does not have to be stagnant to be steady. I can discern. I can question. I can dream. I can change. I can step toward something new when God calls. I can admit when something no longer fits. I can grow into a version of myself I haven't met yet. And through all of it, my roots can remain exactly where they belong. In Christ.

I still don’t think I’m going back to choosing a word every January. There’s something beautiful about letting this one reveal itself. I didn’t start 2026 saying, This will be my year of being rooted. I just kept encountering the invitation. In Scripture. In sermons I was preparing to preach to other people that somehow preached right back to me. In conversations. In discernment. And eventually, on the cover of the Bible I would carry into whatever comes next.

Rooted.

Maybe this year has been less about figuring out exactly where I am going and more about becoming certain of what I am rooted in. Maybe God knew I would need deeper roots for whatever comes after this. I don't know yet. And strangely, I’m becoming more okay with that.

There are still months left in 2026. There are still questions I cannot answer and parts of the story I cannot see from here. But I know the soil beneath my feet a little better than I did in January. I know what I want my life to grow from. I know where I want to return when everything around me gets loud. I know that growth does not always look like movement. And I know that sometimes the word you need most isn’t the one you choose on January 1.

Sometimes you live it for a while. You preach it. You wrestle with it. You find it written across Scripture and somehow written across your life. And one day you look around and realize: Oh.

This is what God has been growing in me all along.