"When the First Cut Hits the Ego"

Cat Stevens once sang, “The first cut is the deepest.” That lyric has always resonated with me—but not in the way most people think.

Each year, when tree planting season begins and I dig that very first hole with my shovel, I catch myself humming that line:

“The first cut is the deepest, baby, I know…”

And it’s true—at least for my body. That first cut into the earth always feels the hardest. My muscles, unused for months, protest. But after a few hundred trees, the rhythm returns. The movement becomes automatic.

Step, step, cut, plant.
Step, step, cut, plant.
Step, step, cut, plant.

There’s a sort of music in it—the metallic beat of shovels against soil, especially when you're surrounded by other planters, each with their own cadence. It's like a symphony made of dirt and dreams.

But last year, I discovered a new truth about that lyric.

This time, the first cut didn’t hurt my body.
It cut straight through my ego.

I had spent four years proving myself as a planter. My dream? To get selected for the Iceland season—an elite, high-stakes job with a short window and a big reward. I worked relentlessly, getting better every year. And finally, I made it. I landed in Keflavik filled with pride, ready to plant hard and earn big.

Getting there was one thing. Living up to it was another.

The first three weeks were a waste. Our trees hadn’t arrived, so we were stuck doing meaningless "greenwashing" tasks—replanting dead trees from the previous season, then fertilizing them even though they were clearly lifeless. It felt like kissing the dead, like pouring energy into a void.

But finally, in the fourth week, we started planting for real.

This was supposed to be free planting—no strict lines, no perfect spacing. Just plant as you go, making sure the area was dense enough. The terrain looked simple: a flat, barren, lunar landscape. Birch plugs barely the size of my hand. Easy, I thought.

Except, it wasn’t.

The ground was soft on top but riddled with rocks beneath. My shovel struck a stone with the first dig, sending a jolt through my arm and down to my lower back. Ouch.

That first cut didn’t hurt my muscles—it bruised my confidence.

Despite the physical pain, I pushed through. I planted over 1,200 trees in just a few hours—more than I used to plant in an entire day in France. But numbers don’t make a good planter.

I was lost. Literally.
I crossed into someone else’s parcel without realizing it.
I couldn’t find the tree cache.
I lost my backpack.
I probably double-planted rows.
The dry grass camouflaged the trees.
Everything looked the same: rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
I felt like I was on the Moon—with no sense of direction, no sign of my team, not even my boyfriend nearby.

Even the GPS failed.

Back in France, I had confidence. I had precision. In Iceland, I felt like an amateur—fumbling, disoriented, defeated.

By day’s end, there wasn’t a single part of me that felt competent. Not a cell in my body whispered professional. I had worked so hard to reach this point, and yet, I felt like I was starting from scratch.

And maybe that was the point.

That first cut in Iceland showed me that no matter how far you’ve come, some situations will humble you completely. I had to unlearn nearly everything and rebuild from the ground up—literally.

I had to learn to:

Navigate an alien landscape

Keep track of where I planted

Use my energy more efficiently

Trust my instincts in unfamiliar terrain

Yes, it was painful. Yes, my ego took a hit.

But growth never happens without discomfort.

Those tiny birch trees—fragile, unassuming—taught me something profound. They don’t resist where they land. They take root. And each year, they shed what they no longer need.

So I did the same.

I let go of what didn’t serve me anymore—old habits, outdated mindsets, my inflated expectations of how this "dream job" would feel.

And by the end of the season, I hit a new personal best:
4,321 trees in one day.

But the number didn’t matter.

What mattered was what I learned.

Sometimes, the first cut is the deepest—not because it hurts the most, but because it reveals the most.

Sometimes you need to become a beginner again to remember why you started.

And that’s okay.

Even the tallest tree began as a seed.