I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be 56. My birthday is coming up in November, and for reasons I’m still trying to figure out, this one feels different. Maybe it’s because I’m now older than both of my parents ever got to be. Reaching an age they never had the chance to experience has made me look at time in a new way—not with fear or sadness, but with a deeper awareness of the time I still have ahead of me.

And because of that, I’ve started asking myself different questions. What do I still want to learn? What do I want to create? What do I want my home and my life to feel like? What am I holding onto that I don’t need anymore? And maybe most importantly, what still has room to grow?

I don’t have all the answers. Honestly, I don’t think anyone does. But I’m finally comfortable with that. I’m learning to ask questions, to try new things, to look for answers instead of feeling embarrassed that I don’t already know them. And the place that has taught me this the most this year is my garden.

This was my first year planting directly in the ground instead of using raised beds and buckets, and let me tell you, it has been one lesson after another. Sometimes you plant something and it thrives. Sometimes you plant something and wonder what in the world you did wrong. Sometimes you think you’re looking at a vegetable and it turns out to be a weed. Sometimes a plant looks sick and you have absolutely no idea why. And sometimes you just stand there staring at it thinking, what am I supposed to do with you?

I’ve learned not to be afraid to ask. When something in the garden confuses me, I research it. I Google. I compare pictures. I ask ChatGPT. I reach out to gardeners and creators who share their own experiences. And sometimes, even after all of that, I still don’t know. But I’m learning that you don’t have to know everything to begin something new. You just have to be willing to learn, to ask, to admit when you don’t know what you’re doing, and to try again.

One of the biggest lessons came from my cabbage, broccoli, brussels sprouts, and cauliflower. They struggled all summer—worms, beetles, heat, you name it. They weren’t producing anything, and I was ready to pull them out and use the space for something else. But instead of acting quickly, I paused. I asked questions. I researched. I reached out. I even asked ChatGPT. And I learned something I didn’t know, these are cool-weather crops. They weren’t failing, they were waiting.

So instead of pulling them, I pruned them back and gave them another chance. And now, with the cooler temperatures we’ve had this week, they’re already looking better. Maybe they’ll produce. Maybe they won’t. But I’m grateful I didn’t throw them out before taking the time to understand them.

And that made me think about how often we do the same thing in life. We look at something and decide it’s no longer useful simply because it isn’t working the way we expected. But maybe it doesn’t need to be thrown away. Maybe it needs to be repurposed. Maybe it needs a different season.

I’ve been thinking about that while cleaning out our home too. As we sort through years of accumulated things, I’m trying not to automatically assume everything needs to go. Some things really do need to leave, they no longer serve a purpose and only take up space. But other things make me pause. Could I use this differently? Could someone else use it? Could it be repurposed instead of replaced? Could something that doesn’t fit my life right now still have value somewhere else?

I’m learning that making room isn’t always about throwing things away. Sometimes it’s about taking a second look. Sometimes it’s about pruning instead of pulling. And sometimes, just like those vegetables, something that looked like it had reached the end of its usefulness simply needs the right season to show you what it can still become.

This year in the garden, as plants finished their season, I cleared space—zucchini that stopped producing, cucumbers that were done, cabbage that never had a chance. And instead of leaving those spaces empty, I planted again. Lettuce, peas, cauliflower, golden beans, more cabbage, more beets, and more carrots.

An empty space doesn’t always mean something went wrong. Sometimes it means something already did exactly what it was supposed to do. And now the space is available for something new.

There’s a lesson in that for me personally too.

As we declutter our home, some things are being sold, donated, or simply let go. Clearing things out isn’t just about getting rid of stuff, it’s about creating space. Space for new things. Space for what matters now. Space to breathe. Space to grow.

Maybe that’s what this season of my life is about too.

I’m learning that transformation doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like pulling out an old plant. Sometimes it looks like pruning something back. Sometimes it looks like cleaning out a closet or letting go of something you’ve held onto for years. Sometimes it looks like asking for help because you don’t know what you’re doing. And sometimes transformation looks like planting something new, even when you don’t know exactly how it’s going to turn out.

That’s where I am right now—planting, learning, growing, letting go, making room.

As I approach 56, I don’t want to spend my time worrying about how much time has passed. I want to pay attention to what I can still grow. I want to learn things I’ve never learned before. I want to make things with my hands. I want to spend more time outside. I want to nurture my garden, my home, my relationships, and the parts of myself I’ve neglected along the way.

I want to keep becoming.

And maybe that’s what I love most about a garden. It doesn’t ask you to have everything figured out before you begin. You plant a seed. You water it. You give it sunlight. You protect it when you can. You ask questions when you don’t understand. You learn from the things that don’t grow. You prune the things that still have potential. You remove the things that have finished their season. You make room. And then you plant again.

Maybe life isn’t all that different. We’re constantly growing, changing, pruning, letting go, learning, and beginning again.

So, as I look around my garden this fall, I’m trying not to see only the things that didn’t make it. I’m choosing to see the space they left behind—the space for something new, something unexpected, something that still has room to grow.

Because sometimes an ending isn’t an empty space. Sometimes it’s an invitation.

An invitation to learn. An invitation to grow. An invitation to take a second look. An invitation to plant something new.

And I’m ready to see what grows next.

Thanks for stopping by. I’m glad you’re here!

Kristen
Rooted in This Chapter