Learning to Garden Within
A Reflection by Brittany Haynes
I dedicate this reflection to my dear sacred friends who stood beside me without judgment, embraced me at my lowest, and helped me heal more than they will ever know. I carry each of you in my heart with deep gratitude and love.
Learning to Garden Within:
For much of my life, I carried a quiet ache I didn’t fully understand. I knew I was hurting, but I did not always have the words for it. Something inside of me felt unsettled, as though childhood pain had planted itself deep in my spirit and continued to grow, even when I tried to ignore it.
I always dreamed of having a life that looked like a beautiful garden, full of peace, joy, love, deep connection, and belonging. I tried to plant good things. I worked hard to water what mattered and create something beautiful from what I had lived through. From the outside, everything appeared tended to: home, family, and responsibilities carefully managed. Yet inside, there was turbulence. My garden felt overgrown, tangled with weeds I didn’t know how to pull. I convinced myself that beautiful gardens belonged to those who began with healthy soil and the right tools, those who had been given a strong, steady start.
Then everything changed. An injury slowed my body down, and soon after, my mother died suddenly. I was not prepared for her death. Our relationship had always been complicated; there was love, but also pain, distance, longing, and so many things left unresolved. When she died, it felt like the ground beneath me cracked open. I could no longer run. I could no longer hide. I could no longer stay busy and pretend I was fine. My garden felt overrun with weeds again—weeds of grief, fear, anxiety, and sorrow. I could no longer see anything beautiful growing.
At first I tried to fix it the only way I knew how. I journaled, read books, and joined grief groups, trying to pull at the weeds little by little, doing what I could. Then I began to pray. I asked God to help me release the pain; to help me learn how to garden. God whispered, “Go within. Garden within. Do not be afraid. I will help you pull the weeds. I will help you uncover the roots. I will help you tend the soil."
The roots were deeper than I expected: self-doubt, shame, the need to please others, old wounds buried deep in hardened soil. I was afraid. “God, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to garden. This feels hard and heavy." God gently reminded me I was not alone. If I trusted, God would teach me. God would give me the right tools and help me carry what felt too heavy to hold.
And so I began the slow, sacred work of gardening within. Some days were messy and painful. Pulling up roots is disruptive. It requires turning over heavy soil that has been compacted for years. Yet every time I brought God the hard, burdened soil of my heart, I was given something in return: compassion, courage, forgiveness, reflection, and trust.
God sent experienced gardeners into my life, sacred people who held space for me without judgment: mentors, safe communities, spiritual guides, and faithful friends who helped loosen the soil of my heart. They reminded me I was not broken. They taught me how to name what hurt and release what no longer belonged in my life.
Today, I can say something I once thought impossible. The turbulence has quieted. My garden no longer feels overgrown and unmanageable. I can feel the warmth of the sun. The soil within me feels fresh and alive. Flowers are blooming. My roots are strong, and I have learned to be patient with growth. What I am planting now are seeds of compassion, connection, and sacred presence, and they are beginning to blossom.
My garden is not perfect, but it is healthy. It is tended. It is alive.
I have come to understand that beautiful gardens are not something we are simply born with, but something we grow—gently and courageously—with God beside us.
Did this reflection resonate with you?
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