Have you ever sown a seed and waited for it to sprout? Or maybe you have waited entire winters for your Tulip bulbs to open up in warm weather.
There's a particular kind of quiet that happens when you're waiting for a seed to sprout. You water it. You check for light. You do the small, repetitive acts of care, like moving the plant in the sun, checking the soil moisture, etc., and then you wait. There's no shortcut. No app or AI to make it faster. No way to demand instant gratification from soil and water.
I didn't realise these small acts and what they do to you until recently. This habit of sprouting every seed, this waiting, taught me something crucial about myself.
Here is a little background, before I start- my apartment in Canada doesn't get direct sunlight before noon. My garden isn't in the ground. Everything I grow lives in containers, on windowsills, and on a small balcony. I started growing things almost by accident. A bulb here, a seedling there. But somewhere along the way, without me noticing, these small acts became a language I was speaking to myself. Here is what I learned about myself: I can make something bloom in a constrained space; I can create abundance with what I have; and I am talking not just about gardening, but about my life's belief system.
The Mathematics of Hope!
Here is a theory I read a while back- When you grow from seeds and bulbs, you're making a deal with the future. It's like telling yourself: I believe something will grow here. I believe it's worth my time today.
I am aware that I live in a world that works on instant notifications, same-day delivery and quick wins. And gardening habits are rebellions here. It's like choosing to invest in something you won't taste or touch for weeks, sometimes months. And with Canadian weather, a lot of months.
And that's exactly how I have been living my life with everyone around- with HOPE. A hope that relationships will become better over time, a belief that people, like seeds, bloom when the weather is right. And become likeable, just like a plant in full bloom.
The Things I Am Teaching Myself
I am teaching myself a lot of things about a better way of living- a habit I am building today and investing in a better tomorrow.
I started buying the vegetables and fruits I actually wanted to eat, not the ones that are trending and are told by Instagram/TikTok influencers that I should eat. I eat ripe mangoes that smell like summer. Leafy greens that taste like something. Real food, for real pleasure, not punishment or obligatory health choices.
I bake cakes on random Tuesdays. Not for anyone's birthday. But because the act of making something sweet, watching it rise, and sharing it felt like hope, too.
I bought a bag that I actually liked carrying around. Started sleeping at times that felt right for my body. Small things. But each one was me saying: Your comfort matters. Your preferences matter. You deserve to care for yourself the way you care for everyone else.
And that sounds small until you realise how radical it is to believe you're worth that kind of attention.
What The Garden Gave Me Back
Plants are uncomplicated in what they ask for: light, water, and a bit of consistency. Beyond that, they grow in their own time.
There's a quiet reassurance in that. With people, it's rarely that simple. There are expectations and an unspoken pressure to show up in certain ways, to be useful, to meet invisible measures. And so, some days, I find myself drawn more toward the garden. Not as an escape, but as a way of returning to something steady. It feels like showing up for myself without the noise. It's not really about the herbs or the flowers; it's about witnessing something change, slowly and without force. Being present for that process has been teaching me more than I expected.
I think we all have something we're tending to that the world doesn't see. Some small corner where we're practising belief in tomorrow. Some private act of hope.
Maybe it's not a garden. Maybe it's a journal you write in, knowing no one will read it. A skill you're learning slowly. A relationship you're nurturing. A version of yourself you're gently becoming.
The message I have for you is: You don't need permission to build something. You don't need the perfect space or resources. You don't need to rush. What you need is to show up. To water what matters. To believe in the bloom even when all you see is dormancy.
To build a garden, literal or otherwise, is to believe in tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, that belief is what tomorrow was waiting for all along.