The Garden That Wouldn’t Bloom

I spent my childhood in a garden that never quite bloomed.

At least, not for me.

The soil looked good from the outside—neighbors admired the tidy rows, the painted fence, the illusion of order. But beneath that surface, the ground was selective. It only fed certain seeds. The ones that grew straight. Quiet. Predictable.

I was wild lavender in a rose garden—pretty, maybe, but not what they planted.

I watered myself with approval. I bent toward the light of “Look what I did!” hoping that this time it would be enough to earn a proud nod or maybe even a warm word that didn’t come with a sharp edge. I pruned my personality. Hid the parts that leaned too far, laughed too loud, or questioned the way things were.

But no matter how still I stood, how hard I tried to bloom on command, it always seemed like I was one petal short of being worthy.

They said the garden was for all of us. But I noticed the way the sun always hit the others just right. I noticed how often I was told to grow in the shadows.

There were rules, unspoken but enforced. Be useful, but not needy. Be successful, but not proud. Be present, but invisible. Be perfect, or don’t be noticed at all.

So I shrunk. Not all at once. But slowly. A little here, a little there. I gave up dreams that didn’t fit in their planters. I silenced parts of me that refused to grow in filtered light. I convinced myself that maybe if I just tried harder, I’d finally be enough.

Enough for them to stop plucking at my flaws.

Enough for them to say, “We see you. And we love you just as you are.”

But that day never came.

Now, years later, I’m replanting myself. In open fields. Under skies that don’t demand perfection. Around people who don’t treat love like a prize you have to earn.

And I’m learning this: It was never me that wasn’t enough. It was the garden that couldn’t hold anything different than what it understood.

So if you’re still standing in that yard, reaching for light that never comes… you’re not broken. You’re just meant to bloom somewhere else.

Until next time,