Skip to Content

Why I Garden: A Story of Survival, Loss, and Hope

Sharing is caring!

The first time I planted a seed, I held my breath.

Would it grow?

Would it fail?

Would it, like so many things in life, be taken away before it had a chance to flourish?

People ask me all the time, "Why do you garden?"

I don’t think they expect the real answer as to why I garden.

Yes, it’s hard work.

The weeds never stop coming.

The sun scorches my back, the soil dries and cracks, and there’s never enough time, never enough mulch, never enough hands to help.

Some years, nothing grows right—the rain comes too much, too little, too late.

The groundhogs steal what I’ve nurtured, and I stand in my garden, defeated, wondering if it’s even worth it.

But then I remember.

I garden because I know hunger.

I garden because I know what it’s like to have food rationed—to watch others eat while you wait, stomach growling, hoping there’s something left.

I garden because when I was a child, food wasn’t a guarantee.

It was an afterthought.

I garden because I never want to feel that helpless again.

A rustic birdhouse among red and orange berries in Sheri Ann Richerson’s garden, symbolizing life, shelter, and the passage of seasons.

Learning to Let Go

There was a time when I thought I could control everything in my garden.

I wanted neat rows, perfect plants, no weeds, no failures.

But I’ve learned that gardening—like life—is unpredictable.

Some plants thrive despite neglect.

Others wither even with the best care.

I used to believe failure was my fault.

Because when I was a child, nothing was ever good enough.

  • A 100% on a test wasn’t enough—I should have found a way to earn extra credit.
  • An A on a report card wasn’t enough—it should have been an A+.
  • If I didn’t meet impossible expectations, there were consequences.

The same way a plant struggles against poor soil, harsh winds, and relentless weeds, I spent my childhood fighting for approval, for love, for security.

And when I lost my husband Jerry, it was like watching my entire garden wither overnight.

We had a future planned—dreams, projects, a life rooted in the earth we were building together.

Then, suddenly, he was gone.

Cancer doesn’t wait.

It took him in just four weeks.

One moment we were planning, and the next, I was making the choice to take him off life support.

Nothing prepares you for that kind of loss.

The Magic of a Seed

I still get butterflies watching seeds germinate.

I watch hourly sometimes as the seeds swell with life.

I check for the tiniest sign of a root emerging, carefully watching it grow just long enough to be planted.

I gently tuck it into the soil, making a tiny bed for it, and then I wait—watching, hoping, willing it to grow.

And when the stem finally pushes through the soil, when those first delicate leaves unfurl, I feel that rush of excitement.

That tiny dormant seed has just given birth to life—a plant that will produce flowers, fruit, and seeds of its own.

And I was part of that.

That never stops being incredible to me.

A layered collage of Sheri Ann Richerson working in her garden, surrounded by blooming yellow daffodils.

Dealing with Loss in the Garden (and in Life)

And yet—even in grief, even in the hardest times—life still grows.

This is why I garden.

Because even when everything feels hopeless, when the weight of loss presses down so hard it feels suffocating, a tiny seed still pushes its way through the soil, reaching for the sun.

It happens slowly, almost imperceptibly.

At first, you don’t see it.

You wonder if it’s even there—if it’s alive, if it’s growing, if it will ever make it.

Then—a hint of green.

A whisper of life.

The promise that something is happening beneath the surface, even when all you see is dirt.

And suddenly, what was once buried, what was once just a fragile possibility, is thriving.

That is hope.

  • Hope that the darkness won’t last forever.
  • Hope that even after devastation, there is still growth.
  • Hope that no matter how broken you feel, you can rebuild.

I have planted seeds in moments of grief, exhaustion, uncertainty—never knowing if they would grow, but needing to believe they might.

Because if a tiny seed can push through the weight of the earth, through drought, through storms—then so can I.

Every sprout is a reminder that I am still here, still fighting, still growing.

And no matter how hard life gets, there is always another season.

Always another chance to plant again.

Why I Keep Planting

Not every seed makes it.

Not every plant survives.

And yes, it hurts—because every seed is a piece of hope, a chance at something better.

But I plant anyway.

I plant because there is joy in the process.

The smell of the earth after rain.

The feel of sun-warmed soil in my hands.

The quiet moments when I stand among the plants, hearing only the buzz of bees and the rustling of leaves in the wind.

I plant because this is my peace.

This is survival.

Because every meal from my garden, every basket of tomatoes, every handful of fresh herbs is proof that I have taken back control—that I am no longer that child waiting for someone to decide if I get to eat.

A trellis covered in blooming pink clematis flowers with lush green hostas below in Sheri Ann Richerson’s garden.

Gardening Is More Than Growing Food—It’s Growing Hope

I garden because it’s who I am.

Because it feeds my soul as much as it feeds my body.

Because it’s where I find peace when the world feels like too much.

Because in a life filled with uncertainty, the act of growing something from seed reminds me that hope is always there—waiting just beneath the surface, ready to push through.

If you’ve ever put a seed in the ground, you know—gardening is about more than plants.

It’s about believing in something, even when you don’t see the results right away.

It’s about patience, resilience, and faith.

It’s about overcoming failure, loss, and the unexpected.

It’s about taking control when life feels uncontrollable.

This is why I garden.

What about you?

Why do you garden?

Drop your story in the comments—I’d love to hear what keeps you planting, growing, and digging in the dirt.

Planting Your Garden

 

Sharing is caring!

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Sheri Ann Richerson is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com.
Click here to read my full disclosure, Privacy and Cookie Policy!

Copyright (C) Sheri Ann Richerson, ExoticGardening.com 1998 - 2025

Scented Grass Adds Natural Fragrance To The Home Or Garden Story How To Plant Brugmansia Seeds Story Eat Better Save Money By Growing A Garden Story The Best Vegetables To Plant In February Story Botanical Interests Continues Commitment To Being GMO-Free Story