It began more out of necessity than as a hobby. During my second year of college, I was juggling tuition, rent, and groceries on a tight budget. Ramen and canned beans were cheap—and on repeat. But after weeks of the same processed meals, I started to feel it. My body was sluggish, my mind foggy.
The turning point came during a phone call with my grandma. As I described my diet, she paused and said, *“Te hacen falta verduras”*—'You need more vegetables'. She then shared stories about how her family used to grow plants on a small porch back home. I instantly pictured her hands tending to her garden: unafraid to dig deep into the soil, watering with such gentle care. It didn’t seem so far-fetched—just some soil, seeds, and a bit of patience.
Armed with a few childhood memories and a handful of starter seeds—basil, lettuce, and bell peppers—I cleared a sunny corner of my apartment’s porch and got to work. The first few weeks were full of mistakes: overwatering the lettuce, leaving pots out during a cold snap, misjudging how much sunlight the tomatoes needed. But with every error came a lesson. And slowly, something shifted. Tiny green shoots began to push through the soil, and each new leaf felt like a quiet victory.
By mid-semester, I was harvesting enough greens for simple salads and tossing fresh basil into pasta. I started looking forward to watering the plants each morning—it became a form of meditation before the rush of classes. What began as a desperate attempt to save money transformed into a steady source of pride and calm.
In a life dominated by deadlines and uncertainty, the garden gave me something grounding: tangible growth, one sprout at a time.