There was a season when we were both in the same room but felt miles apart. We were busy, always busy, managing work, the house, parenting, errands, and everything in between. By the time the evening came, we had nothing left to give each other except exhaustion. We weren’t fighting, but we weren’t really talking either. We laughed less. We touched less. We were living side by side but not truly together.

It wasn’t one big argument that made us realize something was wrong, it was a quiet moment. One day, our son was outside digging in the dirt, proudly showing us the tiny sprout he found, and we realized we hadn’t been outside with him in weeks. We stood there, watching him play, and it hit us like a light bulb turning on, we were growing everything in our lives except each other.

We knew something needed to change.

That night, we talked honestly for the first time in a long while. We realized that connection isn’t something you stumble upon; it’s something you nurture. We decided to start small, with something simple, quiet, and grounding: a garden.

There was a season in our lives when it felt like we were missing something. Our days were busy, filled with all the right things, work, school, meals, routines, but the laughter between us had quieted. Our little boy was growing fast, and we suddenly realized how easy it was to be in the same house yet live in completely separate worlds.

There was one morning — one of those mornings every parent knows too well — when everything felt like too much.
Shoes were missing. Lunchboxes weren’t packed. The coffee pot hadn’t even started brewing yet, and our little boy was asking questions faster than we could form answers.

By the time we finally made it out the door, my shoulders were already tight, my jaw clenched, and I could feel that familiar heat rising — the one that whispers, “You’re failing. You should be more patient.”

But the truth was, it wasn’t just about that morning. It was every morning. Every rush. Every spilled cup of milk. Every “I don’t want to” from a tired child who just needed us to slow down.

That day, sitting in the car after drop-off, I looked at the garden bed we had left half-finished in the yard. The weeds had taken over. The tools were still leaning against the fence from weeks ago. It felt like a metaphor for how life had gotten away from us — overgrown, unbalanced, and a little bit forgotten.

And then it hit me.

We weren’t just losing our patience with each other — we were losing it with ourselves.

It started one Tuesday evening.
The kind of night where everything felt just a little off.

The day had been long — work emails, after-school chaos, and a kitchen counter that looked more like a battlefield than a place to eat dinner. I stood there, spoon in hand, staring at the pot of pasta and wondering how dinner had somehow become the most stressful part of our day.

Squish sat at the table, pushing peas around his plate. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbled — though I knew the real problem wasn’t hunger. It was control. Texture. Maybe even boredom.

And there it was — that moment.
The quiet sigh, the tight shoulders, the look between us that said: This isn’t working.

It started innocently — a few extra minutes on the tablet while I tried to finish dinner. Then “just one more level,” and before I knew it, the light from his screen had replaced the light in his eyes.

Our evenings started to feel… mechanical. Instead of laughter and conversation, there were sighs, arguments, and negotiations over turning things off. My husband and I looked at each other one night — tired, disconnected, both scrolling on our own screens — and it hit us: this wasn’t how we wanted our home to feel.

That was our lightbulb moment.

We weren’t just fighting over tech; we were losing the quiet, the wonder, the small things that make childhood (and parenthood) magical. We realized that it wasn’t his problem. It was ours. We’d built a world that revolved around convenience and noise — and forgotten how to slow down.

There was a time when our mornings felt like a mad dash, evenings were a blur, and bedtime often left us drained and frustrated. I remember standing in the kitchen one afternoon, our little one tugging at my sleeve while I tried to figure out dinner, thinking—there has to be a better way. The constant chaos was wearing us down, and it hit us that our daily routines were not supporting our family—they were exhausting us.

We realized something needed to change. We couldn’t keep running through the days in this frenzied way. We needed calm, intentional moments—not just for ourselves, but for our child too.

I used to wake up every morning already feeling behind. The day hadn’t even started, but the weight of exhaustion was already sitting heavy on my chest. Between work, family, and the endless to-do list, there was no time left for me. I told myself this was just “life,” that exhaustion was normal, and that the feeling of never having a moment to breathe was something everyone went through.

But slowly, I started to notice how much it was costing me. I wasn’t present with the people I loved. I was shorter-tempered, less creative, and felt disconnected from myself. The moment I realized something had to change was the day I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at an overgrown patch of weeds in the yard—and realizing that the outside space I had always dreamed of enjoying had become just another reminder of how little time I had for myself.

That was the turning point. I didn’t need more hours in the day. I needed a way to find peace inside the hours I already had.

And that’s where gardening came in.