When I first started gardening, I wanted results right away. I’d plant seeds in neat rows, water them carefully, and then rush back the next morning hoping to see green shoots. Of course, most of the time the soil looked exactly the same. I’d stare, poke at the dirt, and even wonder if something had gone wrong.
Over time, gardening has softened those urges in me. The truth is, you can’t rush a seed. You can give it the right soil, water, and sunlight, but after that, the process belongs to the seed itself. It grows on its own timeline, hidden beneath the surface, until it’s ready to break through.
This simple lesson has changed not only how I garden, but how I live. It’s taught me a kind of patience that feels less like waiting in frustration and more like trusting the quiet work happening beneath the surface.
The Urge to Force Things
In our fast-paced world, patience isn’t easy. Living in Brooklyn, I feel it every day—trains delayed, lines at the grocery store, emails piling up. We’re conditioned to want instant results, whether it’s from an app, a career move, or even personal growth.
I used to approach my own life goals the way I first approached gardening: with urgency. If I set out to meditate more, I expected instant peace. If I tried a new habit, I wanted immediate results. And when progress was slow, I’d get discouraged, sometimes giving up altogether.
Gardening reminded me that growth doesn’t happen on demand. It happens in cycles, with pauses, setbacks, and slow progress that isn’t always visible at first.
Trusting What’s Unseen
One of the most powerful moments in gardening is when nothing seems to be happening, yet everything is happening underground. The seed coat is breaking open. Roots are reaching into the soil. Life is forming in the dark, unseen.
The same is true in life. Sometimes the work we’re doing—healing from loss, learning a new skill, deepening our spiritual practice—doesn’t show results right away. But that doesn’t mean it’s not working. Just like the seed, we may be transforming in quiet, hidden ways.
Now, when I don’t see immediate progress, I remind myself: Trust the process. Growth is happening, even if I can’t see it yet.
Patience as Active Care
Patience doesn’t mean doing nothing. In the garden, patience looks like watering consistently, making sure the soil is healthy, pulling weeds, and checking in each day. It’s steady, gentle care—not force.
In my own life, patience looks like showing up for my meditation practice even when my mind feels restless. It looks like eating well, resting, and nurturing my relationships, even if the bigger shifts I’m hoping for aren’t obvious yet.
Patience is active. It’s tending, caring, and creating the right conditions—while letting go of control over the timeline.
Letting Go of Comparison
Another lesson gardening has taught me is that not everything grows at the same pace. My basil might sprout in days, while my peppers take weeks. My lettuce thrives quickly, but my rosemary tests my patience for months before showing real progress.
It’s the same with people. Some of us blossom early in certain areas of life; others take longer. I used to compare myself constantly—who was further along in their career, who seemed calmer in their spiritual practice, who was “ahead.” But just like plants, we all have our own timelines.
The garden reminds me: it’s not a race. Growth that comes slowly is no less beautiful, and sometimes it’s even more enduring.
The Peace in Waiting
Something shifted in me the day I realized that waiting could be peaceful, not frustrating. Instead of anxiously checking the soil, I started to enjoy the process itself—the watering, the watching, the quiet anticipation.
This is where gardening overlaps most beautifully with my Buddhist practice. Mindfulness invites us to be fully present, even in moments of waiting. It asks us to soften into what is, rather than constantly straining for what’s next.
Now, when I sit with my plants, I see waiting not as wasted time, but as part of the gift. I’m learning to let patience be its own reward.
Seeds in Daily Life
I’ve started to notice where “seeds of patience” show up in my everyday life:
- Friendships: Trusting that connections deepen slowly, with time and care.
- Work: Knowing that skills and opportunities grow gradually, not overnight.
- Healing: Allowing grief and hurt to transform in their own time, without forcing closure.
- Self-growth: Remembering that habits and inner change take root long before they bloom.
Everywhere I look, life is asking me to practice this garden-like patience—to do the tending, then release control.
Final Reflections
Gardening has been one of my greatest teachers in patience. It’s shown me that I don’t need to force things to grow. My role is to create the conditions, offer consistent care, and then trust the natural process of unfolding.
Seeds don’t rush. They don’t worry if they’re behind. They don’t force themselves to bloom before their time. They simply grow, quietly and steadily, until the moment is right.
And maybe that’s the reminder we all need: to stop pushing so hard, to stop comparing, and to let our lives unfold with the same gentle trust.
Patience isn’t just about waiting—it’s about learning to wait with peace, presence, and faith in the unseen.