let it grow

The backyard gets the best light in the late afternoon. That soft kind of sun that feels slow even when everything else is moving. I started a small vegetable garden back there—just a few pots at first. Herbs, greens, tomatoes. Nothing too much.

The first time I noticed the tomatoes, they felt like a quiet reward. Not because they were ready, but because they were there. Proof that something had taken, even if it wasn’t fully formed yet. Most days, I water, prune, shift things around so the stems lean toward the light. There’s not much to do, really. Just show up.

It’s a different kind of rhythm than the rest of my life. Nothing fast, nothing immediate. No inbox, no urgency. Just a slow unfolding that asks for consistency and care. I find myself lingering longer than I mean to—watching the light, brushing dirt from my hands, noticing which leaves are struggling and which ones seem to stretch with confidence.

Gardening has become a quiet teacher. A reminder that progress doesn’t always look like motion. That some things need stillness, warmth, and time to become what they’re meant to. I used to think growth meant pushing. Now I know it can also mean letting go—of timelines, of expectations, of needing to see results right away.

Stillness, I’m learning, isn’t passive. It’s intentional.

It’s the kind of tending that makes room for something to root, to reach, to ripen.

- L