I thought my Miss Huff lantana would be covered in flowers by now. Or at least have more leaves or some sign of growth.

I planted it in the exact conditions it likes: blazing full sun, well-draining soil, and I even set up a greywater system for it. I did everything I could to ensure it can reach its full potential of 8 feet wide with a bounty of coral and golden blossoms. By all appearances, it has everything it needs to thrive.

And yet... it doesn't look that good. In fact, all the flowers it had from the nursery have shriveled up.

Part of me wanted to assume something was wrong. Maybe it needed better soil. Maybe it was getting too much sun. But the one I planted in the front yard 3 years ago is growing in the sandiest of soil and is receiving 20 hours of sunlight a day right now, and it's magnificent: a huge display of joyful color right as you pull in the driveway.

So I decided to stop guessing and investigate, because I wanted to know what was going on beneath the surface. In the coolness of the early morning light, I started digging with a sharpshooter shovel then with a trowel then with my bare hands, carefully moving away the soil around the base of the lantana.

And there was my answer.

Instead of putting its energy into new leaves and flowers, Miss Huff had been busy creating an incredible root system. Healthy roots stretched into the soil in every direction, anchoring the plant and preparing it for the many long, hot summers ahead.

It wasn't failing to grow. It was establishing a foundation strong enough to support the growth and blossoms that will eventually come.

Yet here I was, impatiently digging around to make sure there wasn't a gopher, an irrigation issue, or any number of other problems I feared could prevent my Miss Huff from reaching her fullest expression.

Standing there with muddy knees, I had a little moment of reflection. It made perfect sense to me that a plant would spend a season growing roots before producing flowers. So why is it so much harder to offer myself that same grace?

Lately, I've caught myself thinking that I should be making more videos, writing more, producing more. From above the surface, it looks like not much is happening. But beneath the surface, everything has changed.

I've been rethinking what I want to create. Learning new skills. Reading more than I've been publishing. Letting go of ideas that no longer fit. Quietly building a life that feels more aligned with who I'm becoming.

None of that looks particularly impressive from the outside.

It's root work.

And maybe that's a mistake I often make. I admire the flowers while overlooking the roots that made them possible.

It's easy to scroll through someone else's life and see the "blooms", whether that's a business that's taking off, a published book, a thriving garden, or any number of happy moments they choose to share. What I don't see are the years of unseen root work that made those blooms possible.

The garden keeps reminding me that visible growth isn't the only kind of growth. In fact, sometimes the most important season isn't the one where everything blooms, but rather the one where we grow deep enough to support the life we're imagining and preparing to build.

The flowers will come.

For now, I'm learning to trust the roots.

And whenever I catch myself wishing things were further along, I remember to ask a different question:

What roots am I growing today that my future self will one day be grateful for?

🧡 Erin