When I moved back to Florida,
my garden was not a garden.
It was overrun.
That would be saying it kindly.
Leaves from an entire season lay thick on the ground.
The stones had disappeared.
The pathways had vanished.
Nothing had been touched.
Not because it didn’t matter,
but because something else mattered more.
Energy had to be rationed.
Attention had to be placed carefully.
And the garden…
had to wait.
Even the plants I brought with me
sat quietly at the back.
If they were watered,
it was because it rained.
I covered them through winter.
Wrapped them in blankets.
Tried, in small ways,
to keep them alive.
Then spring came.
I moved them to the front.
Arranged them, not perfectly,
just enough to begin.
And then I looked at the yard.
It was a lot.
Too much, almost.
We tried bringing someone in to clear it out.
That didn’t work out.
So we began ourselves.
Not all at once.
Not even close.
One small section.
One layer of leaves.
One quiet hour of effort.
Clearing was not a single act.
It was a process.
Slow. Repetitive. Necessary.
Over multiple weeks.
And as the leaves lifted,
the ground began to breathe again.
Grass found its way through.
Stones reappeared.
The shape of the garden
slowly returned.
Pressure washing cleaned what had dulled.
Soil was bought.
Flowers were bought.
Sometimes they sat for days
before being used.
Because life still needed tending too.
One wall painted.
One bed cleared.
Another planted.
Weeding one day.
Mulching another.
Brick edging on a different day.
I am not exaggerating when I say
it has been
one baby step at a time.
What could have been a weeks work
has taken two months.
Maybe more.
But that is not the point.
The point is -
the journey is being walked.
And the garden
is coming back to life.
Another two, maybe three weeks,
and it will be where I hoped it would be.
But even now,
it is already something else.
It is proof.
That overwhelm softens
when you stop trying to do everything,
and begin doing something.
That progress does not need speed.
It needs movement.
That life, like a garden,
does not return in one sweeping act -
but in layers,
in patience,
in small, steady care.
A relationship.
A goal.
A course you’ve been meaning to do.
Anything that feels too big or overwhelming
can begin the same way.
One step.
Then another.
And before you realise it,
you are no longer standing at the edge of it -
you are already inside it,
walking it through.