Summer & Lessons From The Garden
This summer has been brutal. The kind of heat that presses against your skin and leaves you dreaming of cool, shady places. My garden, though? It’s been feeling it more than me. The smaller roses, freshly potted and still finding their footing, began to wilt. Even the greenery that usually thrives without much attention started to bow under the relentless sun.
I could feel the garden calling out for help, and I knew it was time to step in. So, I gathered my tools, tied back my hair, and got to work. Repotting the roses was delicate. Their roots were outgrowing their space, desperate for room to breathe and grow. As my hands sank into the soil, I realized how much this garden reflects the process of growth and discovery.
You see, I’m a fairly new architecture student. Learning something so vast and intricate feels a lot like trying to tend this garden in the middle of a heatwave. It’s humbling, unpredictable, and, on some days, downright frustrating. But it’s also deeply rewarding.
Studying architecture has been a mix of joy and self-doubt. There are moments when I feel like I’m finally “getting it,” like when a design clicks or a concept starts to feel alive on paper. And then there are moments when I stare at my sketches and wonder if I’ll ever truly belong in this field.
It’s like the garden. Sometimes, I get it right — the soil, the water, the placement. Other times, I misstep, overwater, or forget how much sunlight something needs. But the beauty of both is in the learning. The garden teaches me to keep going, even when it feels like everything is wilting. Architecture does the same. It’s about persistence, about showing up, even when you’re unsure.
What keeps me motivated, in both the garden and my studies, is the dream of what could be. One day, I want to design spaces where the garden and the building don’t just coexist — they thrive together.
I’m fascinated by biophilic design, the idea of bringing nature into our spaces in a way that feels seamless and alive. Imagine a room where sunlight filters through a canopy of greenery, where walls seem to breathe with the life of the plants around them. It’s not just about aesthetics; it’s about creating joy — a deep, grounding joy that connects us back to nature.
This dream takes root every time I step into my garden. When I smell the roses or feel the cool dirt between my fingers, I can see it — the kind of space I want to create. The kind of space that brings peace, that feels alive, that reminds us of our connection to the world around us.
For now, though, I’m learning. The roses, freshly repotted, are starting to adjust. Their leaves are perking up, and I see small signs of new growth. The greenery, too, is slowly recovering, finding its way back to vibrancy. And me? I’m finding my way too.
This garden, much like my studies, teaches me patience. Growth isn’t linear, and it’s rarely perfect. But it’s in the messy, sweaty work that the magic happens.
One day, I’ll design a building where the garden isn’t just outside the walls — it’s part of them. A space where nature and architecture work together to bring people joy. Until then, I’ll keep tending this little patch of earth, learning its lessons, and dreaming of what’s to come.
Because if there’s one thing this summer is teaching me, it’s that growth — whether in the garden or in life — is always worth the effort.
Primley.
