My niece's eyes lit up when I pulled a carrot from the soil like magic. As I frosted two different cakes for two different girls, I realized: we know what we're planting in gardens, but children? They come without labels.
Nature & Reflections
The Evening Glories Need Untangling—But First I Have to Learn to Stop Fixing Everything
In twilight's storm, I resist untangling vines that double over themselves. My need to fix things—phones, weddings, people—is almost palpable. I couldn't sit in church service; I had to be in the AV booth with control. Sometimes facing worry means not taking action. Sometimes you sit still with tangled vines and wait for inspiration.
Missing Golf Balls, Growing Cucumbers, and the Size 8 Dress That Changed Everything
I can't hit a golf ball to save my life, but I squeezed into that bridesmaid dress. Sometimes thriving means accepting you're terrible at Top Golf while celebrating the herbs finally sprouting in your garden.
Thirty Feet Underground, Granite Taught Me We’re All Tending the Wrong Garden
Spring cleaning attacked my surfaces—dust, pounds, garden blooms. Then water on granite in a wine cellar showed me what I couldn't see: we focus on visible beauty while our roots determine everything. Physical health doesn't reflect the emotional, spiritual, mental. What good is a clean house when you're six feet under?
What My Italian Grandfather’s Garden Taught Me About Love
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.
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.
Writer's Growth 