I used to think gardening was something reserved for retirees or people with too much time on their hands. It was never something I had considered for myself. But after my husband passed, I found myself staring at the bare backyard, feeling an urge to bring some life into it. The house, like my heart, felt hollow, and I needed something to nurture, something to take care of.

I started small—just a few pots with herbs at first. The act of planting, of digging my hands into the soil, felt strangely therapeutic. As the days went by, I found myself adding more plants—flowers, vegetables, anything that could grow. I learned about different soils, watering schedules, and how to care for each plant. It was a lot of trial and error, but with each mistake, I grew, just like my little garden.

There was something profound about watching life grow where there was once nothing. It reminded me that even in the darkest times, there is always potential for new beginnings. The routine of tending to my plants—watering them, trimming the dead leaves, watching them bloom—gave me a sense of purpose I had been missing. Slowly, I realized that as I nurtured the garden, it was nurturing me back.

The backyard became my sanctuary, a place where I could sit and reflect, where I could be at peace with my thoughts. Each bloom felt like a small victory, a sign that life goes on, and in those quiet moments, surrounded by nature, I started to heal.