Fuck it, I’m going to build a garden.

And I will fight off all the parasites and the politicians that try to steal the fruits of our labor

Last spring, I was at a crossroads.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Romantically, I had meaningful rendezvous but couldn’t bring myself to wade in deeper. I was still mending the collective hurts I’d patched over with new romances, a cycle of healing and undoing.

I reflected on how being queer and finding community had opened up my world—and how it had also complicated things. My personal life spilled into my cozy and genuine one. At one point, they were merging beautifully, but then I began to feel like I was clinging on while the world around me slowly shifted.

I needed a reset.

A dear friend and a once-lover inspired me to move out of my apartment.

“I’m gonna build a garden in my new place,” I told them.

I pictured it vividly: fresh herbs and peas, oatmeal outside. I'll have dinner parties. Tea rituals. A quiet, intentional life. I'd have a skincare routine and I'd grow my butt real big out of sheer willpower. I convinced myself I didn’t have time for romance—I was going to build a garden.

And then, of course, romance walked in.

At first, I thought, This is fine. You can have a garden and a relationship. But the garden wasn’t just a project—it was a promise I made to myself. A commitment to pouring love into the earth, letting it grow, and feeding it back to myself. Proof that I could choose me.

What I didn’t realize was that in moving out, my solitude would become a fortress. I’m sure I neglected friends in ways I’m not proud of. But I needed that moment—a quiet meditation on a chaotic couple of years of self-discovery.

Without knowing the full weight of my imaginary garden, my now-partner sensed its importance.

“You were going to build a garden,” they told me one night. “I’m getting in the way of your gardening.”

I hated that it weighed on them, but in that moment, I had never felt more understood. They knew the garden wasn’t just a garden—it was a healing journey.

Months later, I am in love. And no, I don’t have a garden.

But I have a partner who is fully invested in helping me build the slow, intentional life I once dreamed of alone. Together, we have been moving past old wounds, dismantling mental blocks—not in solitude, but side by side.

Somewhere along the way, the garden slipped from my mind. When one thing blossoms another wilts. The ADHD fixation faded, but the poetic symbolism remained as an itch left unscratched.

And then, there was the state of the world.

My most recent, and also my very first, love poem

I watched politicians villainize the people I love. I watched them steal joy from my community. I had little brain space for mulch and compost or counting beans.

Now, as I sit and wait for this administration to dismantle the progress generations before us fought for, my partner wants to build me a garden.

And I’m going to grow things in it.

If they build me a garden, I have to keep it alive. I have to nourish it, weed it, ensure it gets plenty of sunlight—so that I can return the love to the people who have held me this year.

To my partner for pushing me, to my sweet internet friend for always inspiring me—thank you. To my day-one friends who have stuck around, I love you even more.

The world is unraveling, but finally, I will have a garden. And I will fight off all the parasites—both the ones in the soil and the ones in office—who try to steal the fruits of our labor.

This spring, I will plant seeds. And hopefully, come summer, we will eat fresh greens on my patio. Maybe we will still have our rights intact.

The past year has shown me that I don’t have to be perfect to receive love. That love—romantic, platonic, communal—can be healing.

What is watered will grow.

What is cut down will rise again.

What’s more inky swords than that?