My Secret Garden: Lessons on Love, Life, and Loss

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~Anais Nin

When I think of gardening, I think of my grandmother. Just saying the word gardening conjures her standing in the middle of a vegetable garden with a wide smile and a laugh I still miss. But I never connected gardening to me.

In fact, I would have told you in no uncertain terms that I don’t have a green thumb, that I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned, and that gardening just isn’t for me. It is true that I’ve managed to murder a number of potted plants over the years — everything from succulents to a tiny potted money tree that used to sit on my desk at work. Even things planted outdoors failed to thrive when I was in charge of caring for them.

But I drew all the wrong conclusions. I had decided I wasn’t good at it rather than realizing that of course I wasn’t good at it yet. I had skipped right over the learning stage as if gardening is something we either have the aptitude for or don’t.

But 2020 changed everything. I lost my grandmother the year before and felt it keenly. And suddenly, I found myself in my own home around the clock. After redecorating every room and finding time to clean out closets and catch up on my reading, I realized that gardening was still an interest — even if my entire life experience had lead me to believe I was bad at it.

In the beginning, I killed a few plants. Sometimes, I still do. But I planted seeds, and they grew. They didn’t just grow; they thrived.

One evening, I walked out into my garden to see the most gorgeous moonflower opening up. By morning, it was gone. I began to read about them — about how they work and what they need, when they bloom and how much water they prefer. I found myself spending more time watering my garden, more time with my hands in the dirt. And the little tiny patio container garden grew into a lush, wild secret garden — the kind I’d always wanted but never thought I could grow.

Even though it’s late in the year, my moonflowers are still blooming. My garden is still growing. On days when I’m struggling, I find myself out there more often, transplanting and nurturing and getting my hands dirty. It fills me with peace, and I know my grandmother would be proud of what I’ve done — even though I’m doing it for me.

Gardens have much to teach us about love, life, and loss — and for once, I am a willing student. This year has been clarifying for me, but it’s also brought up some deeper mental health issues. I have struggled — but I’ve also grown in ways I likely needed.

I’ve learned to hold on to the moment and let go when it’s time.

There’s something about recognizing how fleeting each bloom might be that helps me tune in more to the present moment. Every day, I walk outside and appreciate the changes. Even small shifts bring about joy.

In my life, change isn’t something I’ve typically appreciated. Usually, I fight it every step of the way. But my garden has taught me to hold on to the moment and then let it go.

In life, I may not practice this perfectly, but I am trying. This may be a lifelong struggle for me. I’ve always held on so fiercely. But I can’t make flowers stay in bloom when it’s their time to go. I can’t make people stay either. But I can savor each moment and remember them when they’re gone.

Being mindfully present in our lives is beautiful — but there’s also grace in letting go when it’s time and looking forward to what will come into that space. Some flowers are just for a season. Some people are, too.

I’ve learned that anything we love has to be nurtured, including ourselves.

I lost a friend this year. It was a difficult experience, and I haven’t had much to say about it. Instead, I’ve been quietly processing the experience. But as I cultivate my garden, I’m learning that we have to nurture anything we love or it will suffer. Sometimes, it doesn’t die; it just doesn’t grow. By recognizing this, I’ve learned to put my time, attention, and energy into relationships that are important to me.

I’ve suffered in relationships where I was not nurtured, and I’ve had relationships suffer from my lack of attention. But it’s not just about giving what we want and then expecting to reap the benefits. I’ve learned that each plant in my garden is different and wants different treatment. People are the same. What is meaningful to one person might mean nothing to another. Instead of pouring all my love in ways that are meaningful to me, I’ve learned to be more thoughtful about how I give my affection, tailoring it to the recipient.

But with that being said, we also have to allocate some of our resources to ourselves. I lost a friend because I was putting time, attention, and energy into myself. As loyal as I’ve been all my life, in that moment, I needed to be loyal to myself. I had to make tough choices, but I’m not sorry for them. I pulled myself out of an indescribable darkness, and doing that has to be worth the cost. It taught me to value the people I love but to value myself most of all.

My garden is changing. I am, too. It’s making me softer. Stronger, too. I’ve become more grounded and intentional than ever before.

The cold season is coming though, and I’ll need all my resources to get through it. Nurturing will look different then. It might look like doing the best I can to help them get through the colder days and then being patient that they will survive to make it to warmer ones. It may mean bringing some plants inside and letting others go.

I’ll keep planting the seeds I want to bloom and believing in that vision. I’ll keep growing. When winter comes, I’ll do my best to prepare before letting go, knowing that the seeds I planted will bloom when they’re ready.