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The stems crumbled between my fingers—dry, brittle, tangled. The garden had gone quiet over the winter, and I had let it. I hadn’t trimmed things back in the fall like I normally would. I hadn’t cleaned up or cleared space. I just… didn’t have it in me.

By the time early spring rolled around, I finally found myself out there again, pulling away the spent blooms and broken stalks. The soil was warm and fragrant beneath my hands—tomato leaves, earth, and the faint sweetness of fallen fruit. Orange cherry tomatoes had dropped and burst across the ground, some still whole, some sunken and split. A few vines clung on with stubborn, shriveled fruit, still trying to ripen despite the dry spells. It was quiet, grounded, and real—more alive than I’d expected.

And somewhere in that quiet pruning, I realized how far I’d drifted from myself.

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At the time, I was spending nearly all my energy at a job that had once felt like it might be something good. Something creative. Something that aligned with who I wanted to be. But over time, it stopped fitting. I kept trying to make it work—doing things I didn’t want to do, making choices that didn’t feel right, hoping that if I gave enough of myself, things would eventually get better.

But they didn’t. I stayed too long. And it wore me down.

The more time I gave that job, the less I had left for myself. I stopped tending my garden. I stopped doing the things that made me feel whole. And I didn’t even realize how much of myself I was losing until I was out there again with dirt under my nails, clearing the tangle of over-ripened tomatoes I’d left to fall and ferment into the soil.

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That’s when it hit me. The garden wasn’t the only thing that had gone untended—I had, too. I was tired. Unhappy. Slipping into a version of myself I didn’t recognize. And just like the old blooms I was gently snipping away, I knew something had to be cut.

So I left. I didn’t ease out or wait for the “right” time. I just… let go. 

And if I’m honest, it didn’t feel like freedom at first—it felt like failure. Once again, I had set out to do something that seemed full of promise, and once again, it hadn’t turned out the way I’d hoped. That was hard to sit with. I felt like I’d let myself down. And here I was again, leaving a job—this time not in defeat, but with the quiet knowledge that something else needed my attention: me. 

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Now, I want to be clear: I had the privilege of other work and a support system. I was an independent contractor, and leaving gave me the time I needed to heal and return to myself. I wouldn’t recommend this path for everyone, especially if your livelihood depends on that one role. But for me, it was what needed to happen.

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And here’s the thing: it wasn’t failure. It was freedom.

Deadheading looks a little harsh from the outside. It can feel like loss. But it’s not about what you’re removing—it’s about what you’re making room for.

Since walking away, life has opened back up. I’ve opened back up. I’ve grown in ways I didn’t expect, and slowly, I’ve started to dream again. For a while, I couldn’t even picture what that dream might be—I’d lost sight of it completely. But now there’s space. The garden, yes—but more than that, space to remember who I am, what I love, and space to share it with others.

So no, deadheading isn’t failure.

It’s the quiet, necessary kindness of saying: this part is done. Let’s make room for what’s next.

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***What in your life feels spent—done blooming—but still clinging on?***
***What might happen if you let it go, just enough to make space?***

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