The sky had a minor meltdown again this week. Not the kind where it weeps gently, one poetic drop at a time, but the kind that throws buckets your way. Classic Belgian pre-summer drama. If you’ve been following along, you'll remember my forecast: one part clouds, two parts wind, and a generous splash of mental fatigue. After a winter that overstayed its welcome, let’s just say my patience with precipitation is... thinning.
But somewhere in between the raindrops and the clouds swirling above my head, I found color again. I found it in the garden.
Let me back up a bit. The past months were a tangle of stress, appointments, and heartbreak. Between caring for my daughter and saying goodbye to two dear friends, I forgot what rest feels like. It started showing: sleepless nights, tension headaches, no appetite, and a body that began whispering warnings I didn’t want to hear.
I ignored it at first. Filled my so-called free time with extra work (hello, Hive scoreboard), still believing that productivity was the same as healing. Spoiler: it’s not.
So I retreated. To the only space that doesn’t ask anything of me. The garden.
Herbs: the calm before the thyme
Surrounded by basil, rosemary and thyme, I finally slowed down. I filled my room with their scent and somehow my breathing followed. Thyme especially does something to me. Maybe it’s the nostalgia — it takes me straight to my nonna’s sunbaked garden in Italy, where even the wind smelled like olive oil and safety.
There’s something ancient about working with herbs. Like you’re borrowing wisdom from roots that have seen things. Basil lifts my mood, rosemary clears my mind, and thyme… well, thyme reminds me who I am when I stop trying to be everything at once.
And then the flowers. Oh, the flowers.
There’s the bold orange hibiscus, unapologetically dramatic like she owns the whole greenhouse. The tiny white petunias that spill over their pot like excited toddlers. The yellow black-eyed susans climbing upward like they’ve got somewhere urgent to be. And in the corner, my angel’s trumpet — drooping elegantly like she’s listening to jazz. Each one of them blooming despite the rain. Maybe even because of it.
I used to think gardening was about control. It’s not. It’s about attention. About letting things be messy and beautiful at the same time.
In a week of exams, birds nesting in the oddest places, and work creeping in again — I found peace not in having time, but in taking it. Even just a few minutes, hands in the dirt, surrounded by silent green encouragement.
People often say they’re afraid to be alone. Afraid of the quiet. For me, that’s the moment I feel most like myself. And in that stillness, with a laptop half-closed and herbs brushing my arms, I remembered something simple and vital: you don’t need to bloom all the time to be alive.
Sometimes, you just need to plant yourself somewhere soft and let the rain do its thing to bloom again. Ironic, isn't it?
