I used to think gardening was about control.
If you water the right amount, pick the right plants, prep the soil just so—then everything should work, right? That was the deal I made with myself the first time I knelt in the dirt with trembling hands and a packet of seeds. I needed something to go right. Something small. Something alive. Something that didn’t ask for perfection, but maybe—just maybe—would reward my effort anyway.
But the seeds didn’t sprout. Or if they did, they wilted. Or got eaten. Or grew sideways and sad, like they weren’t quite sure they wanted to be here. And I took it personally, which is a funny thing to say about spinach. But when you’re already tired, already stretched, already doubting yourself… a plant not growing feels like more proof that maybe you can’t either.
That first season was a mess.
I overwatered. Then underwatered. I planted things too close. Forgot the mulch. Ignored the labels. Bought whatever looked “pretty.” I remember googling things at midnight with soil-stained fingers and this constant hum in my chest—“Why can’t I just get this right?”
But here’s what gardening taught me: the soil doesn’t hold grudges.
You can dig it up, mess it up, stomp on it, bury the wrong thing at the wrong time—and somehow, it’s still willing to hold space for growth. It’s patient. It adapts. It doesn’t need you to be perfect. It just needs you to come back.
That shifted everything.
The next time something didn’t sprout, I didn’t spiral. I got curious. I asked why, instead of blaming myself. I tried again. Different depth. Different day. Same patch of forgiving dirt.
Over time, I started noticing things I never used to: the way the light moved across my tiny plot in the morning. The smell of the earth after rain. The little signs of life pushing through even when I thought the season had ended. And most importantly, I noticed me—more grounded, more present, more okay with getting it wrong.
Because gardening, it turns out, isn’t about mastering nature. It’s about partnering with it.
It’s about realizing you can’t rush a sprout, can’t force a bloom, can’t will a tomato into ripening. You can only show up. Water. Weed. Wait. Try again. And trust that even your missteps are part of the rhythm.
There’s a quiet kind of grace in that.
It gave me permission to stop needing to be so on top of everything. To stop seeing every mistake as failure. The garden didn’t judge me. It just offered another chance.
And the more I leaned into that rhythm, the more things began to thrive—plants, yes, but also patience. Self-trust. Resilience. All these soft, invisible roots growing alongside the lettuce and basil.
I still get it wrong sometimes. I still plant too early, or forget to prune, or let the weeds go too long. But now, when I do, I smile. Because I know the soil’s still there. Still holding me. Still willing to try again.
And honestly? That’s all I need.
Tags: gardening, soil