Why I Grow Food

This week, headlines about a multi-state foodborne illness outbreak have been circulating across the country. Suddenly people are questioning what produce is safe to buy, avoiding certain foods, and wondering what they're supposed to eat instead.

As I watched those conversations unfold, I realized I wasn't feeling fear.

I was feeling gratitude.

Gratitude that I can walk out my back door, pick a handful of herbs, harvest vegetables, and know exactly where they came from.

Now, let's be clear. A home garden isn't magically immune to contamination. Safe gardening practices still matter. Water quality matters. Hygiene matters. But this recent outbreak reminded me of something much bigger than one recalled product. It reminded me why I believe growing food—even just a little—is one of the most empowering things we can do.

People often joke that it costs fifty dollars to grow fifty cents worth of tomatoes.

And if you're buying brand-new raised beds every spring, fancy seed-starting equipment, decorative planters, expensive soil mixes, and every new gardening gadget on the market... maybe that's true.

But that's never really been the point.

Gardening has become an industry, and somewhere along the way we've started believing that growing food has to be beautiful before it can be useful. We see perfectly curated raised beds on social media, matching watering cans, elaborate irrigation systems, and the newest seed trays every year. We forget that for most of human history, people simply planted seeds in the ground.

You don't have to start from scratch every season.

Save your seeds.

Visit a seed library.

Trade with friends and neighbors.

Reuse pots and containers.

Learn how to improve the soil you already have instead of assuming you need to replace it.

A garden doesn't have to be perfect to be productive.

For me, the vegetables are only part of the reward.

Gardening gets me outside after work. It gives me a reason to slow down and notice the dragonflies flying overhead or the bees moving from flower to flower. It teaches patience when plants don't grow the way I hoped they would. It reminds me that seasons cannot be rushed.

It also connects me to my community.

This week I canned my first batch of green beans, thanks in part to my mother Carol, who generously shared some of her harvest after the rabbits decided my bean patch was their favorite buffet. My pollinators haven't been as plentiful this year, so my raspberries have struggled. Japanese beetles have discovered a few of my favorite plants. The wildlife and I have an ongoing negotiation about who gets to eat what.

Honestly?

I'm okay with sharing.

As long as I get a little harvest too.

Those imperfections are part of gardening. Nature isn't trying to maximize efficiency. It's building relationships, and we're part of that system whether we realize it or not.

There was a season of my life when gardening wasn't possible. When I lived in Arizona, I rented a home with a backyard full of rocks. Between the desert heat and the fact that it wasn't my property, I couldn't build the garden I dreamed about. Looking back now, I realize how much I missed it. Every handful of herbs I harvest today feels like something I don't take for granted.

One of the things I love most about gardening is that it reminds me we still have agency.

So much of the world feels outside our control. We worry about supply chains, rising grocery prices, changing weather patterns, and news headlines that seem to grow heavier every day. It's easy to feel powerless.

But planting a seed is a quiet act of hope.

Growing your own food doesn't mean you're preparing for the apocalypse. It doesn't mean you're trying to become completely self-sufficient. It simply means you're participating in your own nourishment.

Even if all you grow is a pot of basil on your windowsill.

Maybe your "one thing" is learning to can vegetables.

Maybe it's supporting your local farmers market instead of buying everything from a chain store.

Maybe it's planting flowers for pollinators.

Maybe it's finally putting in that little vegetable garden you've been talking about for years.

Those small choices matter.

This month I've been writing a lot about choosing one thing instead of trying to do everything. Gardening has become one of those things for me. It brings me joy, feeds my family, supports local wildlife, connects me to my neighbors, and reminds me that even small actions can create meaningful change.

In Traditional Chinese Medicine, we spend a lot of time talking about living in rhythm with the seasons. Gardening has taught me that lesson better than almost anything else. There is a time to plant, a time to weed, a time to harvest, and a time to preserve what you've grown. Every season asks something different of us.

This week, as I looked at jars of freshly canned beans lining my shelves, I wasn't thinking about fear.

I was thinking about gratitude.

Gratitude for good soil.

Gratitude for generous neighbors.

Gratitude for the knowledge passed down by gardeners before me.

Gratitude that I can walk outside, pick fresh herbs for dinner, and remember that some of life's greatest gifts begin with something as simple as putting a seed into the ground.

Maybe that's why I garden.

Not because I expect the world to fall apart.

But because tending a garden reminds me that, even in an uncertain world, hope still grows.