The Roots We Plant

In the beginning, it’s like planting a seed. So fragile, so small, yet brimming with the promise of something that will grow, bloom, and change. Every action feels deliberate: watering, nurturing, shielding from the elements. You watch it carefully, hour by hour, as if every moment could be the one where it begins to sprout. The soil feels like an uncertain terrain, and you're on constant alert, ready to protect it from harm or misstep.

There’s this deep, instinctual need to check, to be sure the growth is happening just right. Each little change feels monumental: a tiny shoot peeking through, the first soft leaves unfurling. You can’t help but marvel at how something so small holds so much potential. You’re invested, wholly. You stand guard, knowing that this little plant, this little life, needs constant care to thrive.

But time moves, and you learn to trust the process. The garden, like your child, begins to find its own rhythm. The early vigilance turns to patience. You still check on it, of course, but not with the same anxious urgency. The daily watering becomes less of a task, more of a quiet routine. Now, you can step back, let the roots settle deeper into the earth and let the sun do its work. You’ve put in the foundation, and now the garden grows mostly on its own.

It doesn’t happen overnight. There are still moments of worry, of storms you can’t predict. But gradually, you understand: the garden knows its own way. You’ve cultivated it with love, and now, just like with parenting, you realize that growth doesn’t need to be controlled as much as it needs to be trusted. You can now peek once or twice a day, and in those brief glances, you find pride in what’s blossomed and joy in the quiet certainty that things are unfolding as they should.

Musings by Ashton Loren Ryan