Grandpa Rubbo grew tomatoes with the same devotion he brought to Sunday dinner prayers. Here's what I learned about family, food, and the legacy of love when I planted my first vegetable garden.
Nature & Reflections
When the Scale Says You’re Not Who You Used to Be
At thirty-three, I don't look like the woman in my mind's eye. Here's what my students' prom, a heartbreak playlist, and my azalea bushes taught me about moving on from time itself.
What My Herb Garden Taught Me About Planting Seeds After Divorce
Saturday's 40 mph winds had me worried about my newly planted seeds. But gardens teach us this: we can't know which seeds will thrive, go dormant, or blow away. We plant anyway, because the potential for future joy is worth the calculated risk.
Cherry Blossoms Made Me Forget Statistics—And Finally Write Charming a Love Poem
My March Madness bracket failed, but beneath thousands of cherry blossoms at D.C.'s Tidal Basin, I forgot all my calculations. For one afternoon with Charming, no statistics mattered. High School Laura Joy would've written love poems by month one. Eight years later, adult me finally did.
The Magnolias Bloomed Early, and So Did My Temper
Some buds emerge before their time, risking frost. During our first real argument, my carefully hidden temper surfaced in what felt like an hourglass minute. I waited for Charming to leave. Instead, he asked how we could disagree better next time. Grace, it seems, comes in unexpected moments.
The December Roses That Bloomed After the Ball
At a military gala, I watched Charming uplift every person he met. When I came home sick but happy, my winter roses were blooming in Christmas lights. Sometimes the best growth happens out of season.
Two Shootings in Five Days—But My Evening Glories Keep Me Writing on This Porch
So when are you moving?' the officer asked after the second shooting. But it's my evening glories that shield me from the foster home's porch light, Mrs. Washington who talks gardens with me. Twenty-eight weeks ago, I started writing in a document called 'I Used to Be.' Now I bloom where I'm planted—gunshots and all.
Plants Droop at 4 PM and Bloom at 7—Maybe We’re All Just Waiting for Water
A thousand days of silence broke six months ago when inspiration returned. Like my wilting impatiens that bounce back after watering, sometimes we're built to bloom—we just need the right conditions. My colleague says ambition left him. For me, breathing was hard enough. Until it wasn't.
I Untangled My Evening Glories and Ended a Perfect-on-Paper Romance—Both Needed Room to Climb
Like my evening glories wound too tightly around themselves, I burned my arm making dinner for a fourth date with Mr. Perfect Checklist. Sometimes anxiety you can't explain means something needs untangling—even if it means cutting away buds that haven't bloomed yet.
Five of Six Marigolds Survived—The Same Odds I Give My Troubled Students
When five marigolds thrived in shade where sun plants shouldn't, I thought of my classroom odds. The gang member I couldn't save. The suicidal student who called me a betrayer. Then my date said it: 'There's beauty in weakness.' Maybe we invest knowing some will fail because weakness shows us what we're made of.
Writer's Growth 