There is something about the quiet pull of the earth that speaks to a grieving soul. When my life shattered in ways I never expected—through loss, heartbreak, and change—my heart felt like untended ground, barren and aching. But in the stillness of the garden, in the rhythm of planting, watering, and waiting, I found a way forward.
I never knew how much I needed the soil until I became a widow. Moving in 17 days after my husband died, I was terrified the entire 1/2-acre yard would wilt and die with the signing of the deed. Could I really care for such a beautiful yard and ensure its survival? I wasn’t sure as I began gardening. The important thing was to get up each morning and do the next thing.
The first time I pressed my hands into the earth after loss, it wasn’t with purpose—it was simply to do something, anything, that might silence the ache inside me. I pulled weeds with the same force I wished I could pull away my pain. I planted flowers in a desperate attempt to see something beautiful grow when everything around me felt lifeless.
From the beginning, the 20-year-old manicured garden was in charge. She held all the secrets hidden just beneath the surface. With water and care, each month, a new secret emerged. It became clear I was just along for the ride. Even the sprinkler timer was mysterious, with a mind all her own. Thank goodness it never let me down, running through sprinkling cycles twice a day without fail.
My faithful gardener, Mr. B, and I repaired one broken sprinkler line after another. Plants were removed and replaced by others. The best thing about the garden was that there was always “the next thing” to tend to. That first year, the seasons pulled me along, even when I didn’t realize I was moving forward. From blooms, to fruit, to falling leaves, and finally, the first snow, I made it through one full year as a gardener.
And slowly, the garden did what grief could not—it showed me that healing doesn’t happen overnight. You can’t skip a season when grieving, for the seven stages of grief will appear. Grief will not be ignored any more than persistent weeds in the garden.
That first spring, my broken heart was like a dormant garden, empty and cold, with no signs of life. But beneath the surface, unseen roots were waiting. The first signs of healing were small—like tiny green shoots breaking through the dirt. Some days, progress was invisible, and it felt like I’d never bloom again. Grieving and gardening both take patience.
Gardening requires intentional actions—water, fertilizing, weeding, and tending to new growth. And so does a grieving heart. Planting, nurturing, and watching something flourish outside myself became a quiet form of self-care. With each bulb placed in the ground, I had hope. Each bloom reminded me beauty often follows the hardest seasons.
The garden doesn’t rush. It doesn’t demand. It simply grows, in its own time, in its own way. And over the last five years, so have I.
If you find yourself lost in grief, step outside. Let your hands touch the earth. Bury something in the ground with the faith that it will rise again. And in time, as your garden blooms, so will you.
