Seasonal Reflection Series.

“You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last.” — John 15:16

Spring is the season of sacred becoming. The earth, once dormant, slowly begins to stir—green shoots break through cold soil and concrete, reaching toward light that is finally returning. It is in this season that we, too, are reminded of the Divine Gardener’s hand in our lives. We are the plants, carefully chosen, deliberately placed, and lovingly nurtured by the One who sees our potential before a single leaf unfurls.

God does not scatter seeds carelessly. Each of us is sown with purpose, placed in soil matched for our growth. Some of us sprout early; others take time to push through. But all are given the same promise: with the right care, we will bloom.

I love plants. At some point, without noticing, my entire home transformed into a jungle of intention—a lush, breathing archive of green bodies testifying to my will to nurture, to begin again. Ivy curling down my kitchen walls for yards, like sentences undone. Prayer plants folding their hands each dusk. Snake plants rising like reminders to stand tall, even when the room goes quiet or dark.

Learning to care for my plants took time—precious time. The kind of time I used to give away too easily. I had to study their needs, their moods, their silences. I named them, as one names blessings. I spoke to them with meaning—whispered gratitude over root rot, sang forgiveness through overwatering. And always, always, I played my beloved Miles Davis as I slipped out the door to the market. Letting trumpet notes kiss the leaves in my absence, hoping they felt less alone while I was gone.

April, in its gentle warmth, chilly nights, and quiet rains, calls forth the sowing season. It’s the time to plant not only in the earth but in our spirits—seeds of healing, purpose, clarity, transformation, and joy. But seeds need more than planting. They need rhythm. They need sunlight and slow breath. They need the hush of mental stillness, the balm of emotional safety, the mirror of truthful community, and the living water of faith.

Because like my plants, we do not bloom by accident—we bloom by presence. By the deliberate, holy act of showing up for ourselves again and again, even when we feel like wilting and withering away.

Some days, my plants taught me more than people ever did. They taught me patience, the kind that doesn’t perform but waits in silence. They taught me discernment—when to prune, when to repot, when to sit still and just let things be. And maybe most importantly, they taught me that every living thing is wired to reach for light. Even when the light feels distant. Especially then.

As I journey through my own healing—unraveling years of silenced truth, peeling back layers shaped by trauma, expectation, and survival—I begin to see how I, too, was being cultivated. How the Divine Gardener was tending to me all along. Through every painful uprooting, through every storm that threatened to snap my stem, I was still being grown. Pruned, yes. But never abandoned.

Inch by inch, what once felt scattered now feels orchestrated. The work I am being called to—through mental health advocacy, through writing, through the radical act of storytelling—is no longer separate from my becoming. It is my becoming. I am learning how to bloom and build at the same time. How to plant seeds for others while still watering my own roots.

There is something holy about this kind of blooming. It’s not decorative—it’s deep. It’s the kind of fruit that doesn’t just feed me; it feeds the ones I’m called to reach.

Like any plant, we wither under neglect. Psychologically, when we’re deprived of affirmation, presence, and safe spaces to grow, we curl inward. Mentally, we may lose the energy to imagine newness or to dream. But under the hand of the Gardener, with regular watering and light, we remember who we are. We stretch. We blossom. We bear fruit.

To bloom is not to be perfect—it is to be seen, supported, and sustained. It is to grow toward your becoming, even if slowly, even if scarred, even if broken. The Gardener does not abandon the plant because it falters; He prunes it so it can thrive.

And I know this deeply, because my own life is a testament to it.

As I write this, I’m considering how my autobiography-in-progress reflects the full garden of my life—rooted in hard seasons, strong lessons, high storms, and dry spells, yet learning to blossom into branches I could have never imagined. God is calling me boldly in this season, to labor in both the mental health field and the literary world. I am watching my purpose unfold in ways that weave together personal healing, generational reflection, and a passion to help others grow. The journey I am on has been profound with revelation, restoration, and renewal. What once looked like broken ground is now becoming fertile soil.

So, I write, I teach, I listen, I build—and above all, I grow.

This April, I invite you to trust the Gardener. Sow your truth. Water your hope. And give yourself permission to bloom in every direction He has designed for you.

Love and light for your growth

Happy National Poetry Month