Welcome to Monday Minis, a series where I’ll be sharing very short, eerie stories and haunting little reflections to start the week.
This week’s reflection looks at this year’s gardening season and how it mirrored my own creative journey, from planting too much to learning when to let go. It’s a reminder that even in burnout there is growth.
Beauty in the Decay
I planned heavy writing sessions for the weekend after Halloween, but Saturday came and I just didn’t have it in me. I still showed up, but it was the bare minimum, literally just a brain dump of words I’d hoped to eventually turn into something worth reading.
Needing a change of scenery to help with my blah mood, I went outside into my garden, the one I’ve neglected since August. And boy, oh boy, was it still putting on a show.
Let me be clear: the garden is dying — it’s November and just part of its life cycle — but there is still so much beauty.
The air was cool and had a slight nip to it. It was perfect sweater weather. The zinnia raised beds are still blooming. Their petals are faded now, softer and duller, but the fact that they’re still blooming in November feels like a small miracle. Last year, they were covered in powdery mildew and gone by early August. The marigolds are just as resilient, their orange and yellow blooms still glowing. The snapdragons, while mostly done for the season, still have life in them. Their foliage is a deep, rich green that refuses to fade.
The sunflowers, once proud and tall, have bowed their heads in final surrender, and even in that, there’s beauty. I didn’t cut many this year, but I’ve loved watching the birds feast on their seeds, carrying little pieces of my garden away with them.
Looking around, I realized how much I’ve learned this season, not just about plants but about myself.
This spring and summer I wanted to do it all. I am a strong and resilient person and can sometimes thrive in pressure and chaos. It’s almost as if my body and mind crave it. It’s very familiar and cozy there. I’m also a very curious and ambitious person and I struggle with going slow and doing less. Sometimes I tie my self-worth to my accomplishments, which is probably why I have a hard time stopping once I start. So naturally, I planted many different seeds of the new Stina I wanted to become.
I planted one in the social media universe. I kept watering the algorithm until I drowned in it. I started my seeds for my writing journey in early January, so I was tending to those seedlings by April, trying to do it all. I read so many writing craft books and listened to all the podcasts until it paralyzed me and slowed down my writing instead of helping it. I then decided it was time to plant those seedlings in the garden and just start writing. So naturally, I went big and decided to start working on a novel on top of trying to write weekly posts for my Substack. It was intense.
Summer came, and another goal was to prioritize and pack in some family fun every weekend. I did all that while trying to keep up with the garden, which is a lot of work. Oh, I forgot one thing…I also have a full-time job.
By August, I was running on fumes, trying to keep everything alive: the garden, my goals, my creative spark. It’s funny how burnout looks a lot like the end of a season. Things don’t die all at once. They fade slowly, color draining until only what’s essential remains. The garden started to let go, and maybe I was meant to do the same.
Looking back on this past gardening season, I don’t see loss or failure. I see growth and transformation. I had to shed parts of the old me to become who I am today, and who I’m still becoming. I’m proud of myself for trying new things and for recognizing when something wasn’t working or aligned with my goals. I get to take those lessons with me into the next season of my life and writing journey.
So here’s my reminder to you…..When you see a garden dying and flowers losing their color, don’t discount them. Revel in their beauty. Despite being neglected for months, my garden still showed me that there is beauty even in the struggle. It felt like a sign from the universe telling me to keep going. Keep writing. Even when it’s hard. You got this. A reminder that there is beauty in the decay.
