The garden was supposed to be peaceful this week.
After days and days of relentless spring rain, some so heavy that towns near us had to evacuate, I was just grateful to see the sun again. We didn’t have any flooding in the house, thank God. But road closures and detours were enough of a reminder that nature always has the upper hand.
And when I finally stepped outside to get a good look at the potager?
Weeds. Everywhere. As if they had been holding a reunion out there—inviting every cousin, friend, and seed they knew to take root in my (not so) carefully planned beds.
I grabbed my muck boots, slid on my garden gloves, and said a small prayer that maybe—just maybe—I’d get through a bed without being personally offended by a patch of bindweed.
Garden Lessons: Weeds and the Work
There’s something so honest about weeding. It’s one of those homesteading jobs you can’t avoid or fake your way through. And it never really ends. Even when you think you’ve cleared a bed, you’ll find another little guy popping up a day later, like, “Hey, miss me?”
It made me think about how this work is just part of life, not just gardening. We’re always tending. Our homes. Our kids. Our hearts. There’s always something needing our attention. And sometimes the weeds get ahead of us. Not because we’re lazy. But because life rained down hard for a while, and we couldn’t get to everything.
The Broken Incubator
Back inside the house, we were facing another quiet heartbreak.
We had a clutch of Easter Egger eggs we were excited to incubate. We had plans. We had names already picked. (Okay, I had names picked.) But we didn’t know the incubator had come unplugged… and we lost them. Fourteen little beginnings that never got their chance.
It hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t just the loss of potential chicks—it was the symbolism. We did everything “right.” And it still didn’t go as planned.
But after a good cry and some reflection, I reset the incubator. Cleaned it. Put it somewhere safer. Double-checked the cord. And we started again.
Starting Over Isn’t Failure
You know what I’m learning in all of this?
Starting over doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re still in the game.
The weeds didn’t win just because they got a head start. And we didn’t lose our dream of baby chicks just because the first batch didn’t make it. Life is full of do-overs. And most of them aren’t dramatic—they look like muddy boots, gloved hands, reinforced cords, and fresh starts.
Grace in the Gaps
Sometimes the beauty of homesteading—and homemaking and motherhood—is in those quiet, not-so-pretty spaces. The moments no one posts about. The days where you’re clearing the messes—inside and out—and remembering your why.
I don’t know what your weeds look like right now. Maybe it’s dishes that never end. Or laundry piles. Or disappointments that aren’t fully processed. Maybe it’s the dreams that didn’t hatch, despite all your efforts.
But I hope you know this: You can start again.
And again.
And again.
Because grace is real. And it shows up in the garden paths and in broken incubators and in the hands that just keep going.
A Few Garden Lessons (and from the Brooder)
Life grows in cycles—so does peace.
Restarts are sacred.
Sometimes, it’s the things that don’t go right that teach us the most.
Dirt under your nails is a kind of prayer.
Beauty can grow in chaos—if we keep tending.
From My Garden to Yours
I don’t have it all figured out. But if you’re in a season of restarts or you’re overwhelmed by weeds—literal or metaphorical—I’m with you. And we’re going to be okay.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, the sun is still out and my potager is calling.
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