I never liked gardening. My mom used to love it, but I never had the patience for it. Funny how life works because, a few years ago, I found myself spending hours every weekend in my backyard, digging holes and planting seeds. It wasn’t because I suddenly developed a green thumb. It was because I needed to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the numbness swallowing me whole.
It started when I lost my job. I didn’t tell anyone for a few weeks. Every morning, I pretended to go to work, then drove around aimlessly for hours. I didn’t want to admit to anyone, even myself, that I had failed. At first, I thought it was just job stress, that things would get better once I found something new. But I didn’t realize I was already sinking.
Days turned into weeks, and I was just... lost. My friends noticed I wasn’t around as much, but I made excuses. They were busy with their own lives anyway, so it was easy to slip through the cracks. I spent my days staring at the walls, feeling like a ghost in my own life. Even when I did go out, I felt disconnected, like I was watching my life happen to someone else.
One day, while rummaging through the garage, I found a bag of old flower seeds my mom had left behind. I had no idea what made me grab them, but I did. I cleared out a patch of dirt in the backyard and started planting. It wasn’t about the flowers—it was something to do, something to keep my hands busy so I didn’t have to think.
At first, nothing happened. It was just dirt and silence, which honestly felt like my life at the time. But a couple of weeks later, tiny green sprouts started pushing through the soil. I didn’t realize how much I needed that—proof that something could grow from the mess I felt inside.
Tending to that little patch of garden became my therapy. I’d go out there in the mornings, water the plants, pull out weeds, and just... be. It wasn’t like the sadness disappeared overnight, but working with the earth grounded me in a way I hadn’t expected. Slowly, I started feeling more present. I talked to my sister about how I’d been feeling, and for the first time, I said it out loud: "I think I’m depressed."
That conversation changed things. I went to therapy, got on a treatment plan, and started to work on myself, not just the garden. The process wasn’t perfect—there were days when I couldn’t even bring myself to look outside, much less tend to the flowers. But eventually, I did. I’d always come back.
Today, the garden is in full bloom. It’s small, but it’s mine. Every time I look at it, I remember how far I’ve come. It’s funny—what started as an escape became the thing that brought me back to life. I never wanted that garden, but I needed it more than I knew.
If you’re struggling, if you feel like nothing makes sense, find your "garden," whatever that is. Something small, something that keeps you going. And remember, it’s okay to take things one day at a time. You’re growing, even if you can’t see it yet.
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