Growing Through Seasons

I’ve found myself in the garden a lot lately.

Hands in the dirt, checking on tiny sprouts, watering, adjusting… waiting.

I tried gardening last year, but if I’m honest, I dabbled more than I committed. This year feels different. I’m leaning in. I’m putting time and intention into building something beautiful.

And in the process, I didn’t expect how much it would begin to shape me.

I know it sounds a little funny to say that at the end of March. The plants have barely broken through the soil. There’s not much to show yet.

But maybe that’s exactly the point.

Because what I’m learning has very little to do with fully grown plants… and everything to do with seasons.

When I started planting this year, I realized something almost immediately.

I want everything to happen faster.

I want to plant the seed, see the sprout, watch it grow big, and then harvest something beautiful — all in one smooth, efficient timeline.

But that’s not how a garden works.

And if I’m being honest, that’s not how life works either.

Everything in gardening revolves around your zone — your timing, your conditions, your season. Where I live, I can start early, which is such a gift. But it also means I have to be intentional. Because if I miss the window, I risk running straight into a summer that’s too hot for anything to survive.

There’s a rhythm to it all. A beginning, a window, a peak, an ending.

And no matter how much I want things to grow on my timeline, they respond to the season they’re in — not the urgency I feel.

I can’t rush it. I can’t force it.

I can only work within it.

I’ve caught myself already feeling that quiet pull of discontent.

Looking at my yard, wishing it was lush and green now… when it’s not time yet.

Looking at my garden, wishing it already looked like the full, abundant picture I have in my mind… when the reality is, I just planted it.

Wanting the result without fully walking through the process.

And the more I sit with that, the more I realize how familiar that feeling is.

Because isn’t that how we can be in motherhood too?

Wanting to feel patient without walking through what requires patience.
Wanting to feel confident without being stretched first.
Wanting to see growth without sitting in the waiting.

But growth doesn’t skip steps.

And neither do we.

Lately, I’ve been sitting in this tension between wanting and knowing.

Wanting things to move faster.
Wanting to see the fruit now.
Wanting to feel like I’ve arrived somewhere more settled, more complete.

But knowing… that I’m in a season.

Knowing that something is being built, even if it’s slow.
Knowing that what feels small right now is actually forming something deeper.
Knowing that I will be better because of it.

And if I’m honest, that tension isn’t always comfortable.

It asks me to slow down when I’d rather speed up.
To trust when I’d rather control.
To stay present when my mind wants to jump ahead.

So I’ve been trying, in small ways, to ground myself in what’s true.

For me, that’s looked like journaling.

Not perfectly. Not consistently. Some days it’s just a few sentences, some days I skip it altogether.

But I’m trying.

Trying to process what I’m learning.
Trying to remind myself that this season has purpose.
Trying to capture the growth that’s happening, even when I can’t fully see it yet.

And I’m realizing that even that — the trying, the showing up imperfectly — is part of the growth.

The more time I spend in the garden, the more I see it everywhere.

My apple tree needs winter. It needs that cold, quiet dormancy so that when summer comes, the fruit it produces is full and sweet.

My strawberries can’t produce all year long. After a season of giving, they need to rest. They need time to recover before they can bear fruit again.

Even the soil itself has to be turned over. Broken up. Refreshed. Sometimes completely redone so that it can support new life.

Nothing in the garden is constantly producing.

Nothing is on all the time.

Nothing skips the process.

And yet… everything still grows.

And then there are the parts no one really talks about.

The pests.

You can be doing everything right — watering, tending, paying attention — and suddenly something comes in and starts undoing your work.

It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait until it’s convenient.

It just shows up.

And just like that, you’re reminded how little control you actually have.

In those moments, you’re faced with a choice.

You can give up… or you can keep going.

Sometimes you start over. Sometimes you can’t, because the season has already moved on.

So you learn.

You adjust.

You carry that wisdom into what comes next.

And the more I think about it, the more I see how much motherhood mirrors that.

There are seasons in motherhood too.

Seasons where you feel like you’re just planting, putting in effort and wondering if anything is actually taking root.

Seasons where things are growing, but not as quickly as you hoped.

Seasons that feel full and abundant.

And seasons that feel like everything is being stripped back.

And just like in the garden, you don’t always get to choose the season you’re in.

But you do get to choose how you live within it.

I think a lot of my tension has come from trying to live outside of my season.

Wanting to produce when it’s actually a time to plant.

Wanting things to look finished when they’re just getting started.

Wanting constant progress without allowing space for rest.

But when you try to live that way — whether in a garden or in your own life — things don’t thrive.

They burn out.

They weaken.

They don’t produce good fruit.

Because good fruit doesn’t come from constant pressure.

It comes from healthy rhythms.

From work and rest.
From growth and stillness.
From learning and applying.

From seasons.

Perfection was never meant to be the goal.

Because perfection would mean skipping everything that actually makes something beautiful.

The waiting.
The stretching.
The refining.
The starting over.

Growth has to be the goal.

Slow, steady, sometimes unseen growth.

The kind that happens beneath the surface before anyone else can see it.

The kind that doesn’t always feel impressive in the moment… but changes everything over time.

So if you find yourself in a season that feels slow, or messy, or unfinished…

You’re not behind.

You’re not failing.

You’re just in a season.

And that season is doing something in you.

Even now.

Especially now.

My garden doesn’t look like much yet.

There are small sprouts, bare patches of soil, and a vision that hasn’t fully come to life.

But that doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

It just means it’s not time yet.

And maybe that’s where you are too.

Still planting.
Still tending.
Still waiting.

Learning, slowly, to trust that growth is happening — even when it’s quiet.

Because in the end, it’s not the constant producing that creates something beautiful.

It’s the willingness to stay in the process.

To plant when it’s time to plant.
To rest when it’s time to rest.
To grow when it’s time to grow.

And to trust that in time…

There will be fruit.

And it will be worth it.