About fifteen years ago, one of my closest friends introduced me to gardening.

She loved it.

Every year she planted something new, and every year she would excitedly tell me about what was growing, what wasn’t, what she had learned, and what she wanted to try next.

I smiled.

I listened.

And if I’m honest…

I thought it sounded like a whole lot of work.

Besides, I live in the South.

It’s hot.

Like… why would I voluntarily spend hours outside sweating over vegetables when the grocery store exists?

So I didn’t.

Until eventually, I decided to try just one plant.

Nothing ambitious.

I watered it.

Checked on it.

Watched it grow.

It was… fine.

Until one afternoon changed everything.

I had watered it and gone back inside. About thirty minutes later, I walked back out and stopped.

The plant had moved.

I hadn’t touched it.

No one had.

The entire plant had shifted its leaves and stem toward the sun.

I stood there staring.

It’s one thing to read in a science book that plants are living organisms.

It’s another thing entirely to watch something recognize what it needs… and move toward it on its own.

It knew what it needed.

It knew where life was.

And without hesitation…

it turned toward it.

That moment stayed with me.

From that season on, I planted a garden almost every year.

Then came the cucumber.

That year, my garden was thriving.

Everything healthy.

Everything producing.

And I was so proud of that cucumber vine.

It had climbed beautifully up the trellis and was giving us more cucumbers than we could keep up with.

Then one day, by accident, it was sprayed with weed killer.

I walked outside the next morning.

My heart sank.

The leaves had wilted.

The color was fading.

Within twenty-four hours it looked like it was dying.

So I did what most of us do when something looks beyond saving.

I started planning for what would come next.

I even cleaned the garden bed.

Prepared the soil.

Made room for whatever would replace it.

But I wasn’t ready to pull it up yet.

So I kept watering it.

Every single day it looked worse.

Leaves fell off.

Vines turned brown.

The fruit disappeared.

By week three, all that remained was one bare vine clinging to the trellis.

Nothing about it looked alive.

I had made my decision.

That Saturday, I was pulling it up.

But because I was watering the rest of the garden anyway…

I kept watering that vine too.

When Saturday came, I walked outside ready to be done with it.

And that’s when I saw them.

Three tiny green leaves.

Brand new.

Growing from what I had already declared dead.

I laughed out loud.

“Well… maybe you’re not done yet.”

I stood there staring at those three tiny leaves.

And then it hit me.

I wasn’t looking at a cucumber anymore.

I was looking at me.

The version of me I had quietly started giving up on.

The dream I had stopped talking about because it wasn’t producing on my timeline.

The woman I thought a hard season had permanently changed.

I had done to myself exactly what I almost did to that vine.

I declared it dead…

before God was finished growing it.

So I left it.

Two weeks later, that same vine had completely covered the trellis again.

Healthier.

Stronger.

Producing more than it ever had before.

There have been years I thought parts of me were gone forever.

Joy I was certain I had lost.

Strength I wasn’t sure I’d find again.

Purpose I had stopped watering because it no longer looked like progress.

But God kept tending places I had already given up on.

Growing things underground I couldn’t yet see above the surface.

And when the season was right…

new life appeared.

Not because I made it happen.

Because purpose was never mine to manufacture.

It was His to plant.

Maybe that’s why I still garden.

Every season reminds me of the same truth.

Growth is often invisible before it becomes undeniable.

So if you’re in a season where everything feels quiet…

Keep watering.

Keep showing up.

Keep believing.

Don’t mistake dormancy for death.

Don’t confuse delay with defeat.

And don’t let one hard season convince you that your purpose has expired.

Because what looks dead…

may simply be growing somewhere you cannot yet see.

That’s part of my Herformation.

And maybe… yours too.