I Used to Hate Gardening (And Now It’s My Favorite Place)

If you had told me a few years ago that one of my favorite places in the world would be a garden, I would have laughed.

Or more accurately, I probably would have told you that you clearly didn’t grow up weeding one.

I grew up on a farm in Indiana, and my mom had what felt like acres of gardens. In reality, they probably weren’t that big, but when you’re a kid and you’re the one pulling weeds, picking vegetables, and snapping endless piles of green beans, it feels massive. Those memories are pretty seared into my brain. I still don’t eat green beans to this day, which feels like a reasonable long-term response.

Back then, dirt and bugs felt gross. Gardening felt like work. And not the fun, optional kind.

So the fact that I now willingly spend my free time in a garden—choosing to plant things, water things, fuss over things—is not something I saw coming.

This is my third year really getting into it, and I’m still very much learning as I go. The first year, I planted too late because Mother’s Day completely threw off my timing. (Turns out running a flower company during your busiest holiday is not ideal for starting your own garden.) Last year, I tried to get ahead of it and planted earlier… and then a late frost took a lot of it out, so I ended up replanting after Mother’s Day anyway.

So this year, I’m trying seed starting. We’ll see how that goes. It feels like a bit of an experiment, which is honestly part of what makes it fun.

And this is also the first year I get to use my greenhouse, which still kind of doesn’t feel real. Tim (affectionately known as “Tim the Toolman” around here although he prefers “Turbo Tim”) built it out of reclaimed windows and doors from Habitat for Humanity resell shops, and it’s quickly become one of my favorite places on the property. When he described how he was sourcing for it, I imagined a certain scrappiness about it that I can definitely appreciate, but what he created is far more bougie than scrappy. He’s pretty amazing that way. Also, apologies to Habitat for Humanity for whatever negotiation tactics Tim used to get those materials.)

In the late afternoons after my meetings are done, I’ll go out there with Diet Coke (which we like to call fridge cigarettes here) and plant another tray or check on whatever I’ve convinced myself is going to thrive this year. The light comes through all those mismatched panes in a way that’s absolutely perfect, even though none of it technically matches (but somehow it just does). Trays of tiny seedlings that don’t look like much yet, dirt under my nails five minutes in, and a running internal dialogue of “are we doing this right?” It’s equal parts calm and chaos, which feels very on brand for me.

What’s surprised me the most is how much I genuinely love all of this now.

My favorites to grow are dahlias, cosmos, and sweet peas—flowers that feel a little wild and abundant and not overly controlled. Most of what I grow in the garden are annuals, which means they complete their whole life cycle in one season. You plant them, they grow, they bloom, and then they’re done. There’s something about that that makes them feel a little more special, even if it’s fleeting.

On the farm, we’re mostly focused on perennials—plants that come back year after year once they’re established. They take longer to get going, but they’re built for the long haul. Annuals are more immediate. Perennials are more patient. I’m realizing I like having both in my life.

My relationship with dirt and bugs has also… evolved. I used to think all of it was gross. Now I’m out there actively rooting for the bees, watching them do their thing, feeling oddly proud when everything is working together the way it’s supposed to. (Slugs, however, remain firmly on my dislike list. Some things don’t change.)

I try to organize my garden by color—grouping warm tones together, cooler tones together—but there’s always a rogue purple that shows up where it doesn’t belong or a random yellow that sneaks into the wrong bed. And at this point, I’ve kind of accepted that. It’s part of the charm. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

But my favorite part of all of it isn’t the planning or even the planting. It’s the evenings.

In the summer in Washington, the light stays so late that by the time it finally gets dark, it’s 9:30 or sometimes even 10pm. That moment right when the sun has just dipped below the horizon, everything is still warm from the day, and the garden is lit up with string lights—it’s hard to describe, but there’s something about it that feels a little magical.

The bees are settling into the dahlia petals to sleep for the night. Everything is quieter. Slower. You can feel the day winding down. And standing there, looking at something that didn’t exist a few months ago, that you planted and tended and (sometimes unsuccessfully) tried to keep alive—it hits in a different way. It’s not perfect. It’s not controlled. There are always things that didn’t work or didn’t go according to plan. But that’s kind of the point.

It’s funny how things come full circle like this. The thing I used to avoid, complain about, and count down the minutes until I could be done with has somehow become the place I look forward to being the most. Dirt, bugs, hard work and all.

Xx,

Christina