When the Garden Teaches You How to Grow
We often talk about personal growth like it’s something we can hack or schedule: an efficient morning routine here, a life-affirming listicle there. But growth—real, emotional, soul-deep growth—doesn’t always work like that.
What if the better metaphor isn’t a staircase going ever upwards… but a garden?
Because while we search for clarity, balance, or simply a day that feels like “enough,” we forget that the slow, subtle tending we do matters too. And nowhere has that been more apparent to me than in my garden.
When I first began gardening, I thought I was there to grow flowers. I didn’t realise I’d be unearthing something else entirely.
The spinach bolting too soon mirrored parts of myself I’d neglected. The alliums blooming after months of dark reminded me that beauty often requires quiet persistence. And the mess? That was its own kind of magic.
My garden began teaching me the lessons more often held in books on self-improvement
That manifesting without doing is like planting without watering.
That completion is hard—not because we can’t finish things, but because we forget to savour when we do.
That wildness isn’t chaos—it’s aliveness.
That rhythms matter, and sometimes staying still is part of tending too.
Most surprisingly, I learned that I didn’t have to get everything right. Not in the garden. And not in myself.
Sue Stuart-Smith wrote, “The mind needs to be gardened too.” And once I read it, I couldn’t stop thinking about how true that is.
Gardening asks us to:
Observe without rushing.
Accept mistakes without shame.
Work with the seasons, not against them.
Let go of perfect outcomes.
And return, again and again, to the same patch of ground.
In other words—it’s the same practice that wellbeing demands of us.
You don’t need to own a garden to live this way. But you do need to notice what’s already growing.
If the garden has taught me anything, it’s this:
There will always be weeds. You are not failing because things still need clearing.
Rest counts. Sitting in your garden is still tending to it.
Growth doesn’t announce itself. Often it’s quiet, a cucumber hidden behind a leaf, a shift in mindset you barely notice.
You don’t need to be the expert. Just the one who shows up.
This is the version of wellbeing I believe in: imperfect, seasonal, and rooted in presence rather than performance.
So tell me—what’s growing for you right now?
What do you notice when you look at your days not as tasks to complete but as something to tend?
Let’s start a new kind of growth together: slower, kinder, and more alive.
If this resonated with you, sign up for the newsletter for our take on personal growth (hint: we never call it personal growth outside of a gardening metaphor). Or explore our wellbeing courses where we start, not with goals, but with grounding.
We can cultivate a different kind of wellbeing together: one that feels messy, but real, and offers its own kind of beauty..
Image: made with Freepik
