To Everything a Season

I’ve spent most of the past few weekends working in my yard. It’s August in Central Texas, and the flowerbeds look pretty bleak. Over 100 degrees for most of the last month with no measurable rain—it’s the kind of weather that tests even the hardiest plants and the patience of anyone who loves gardening.

If you’re a gardener in these parts, you know that this time of year is about survival. It’s not about lush growth or vibrant blooms. It’s about keeping things at least a little bit alive so they can make it to the end of September, holding on for the promise of cooler temperatures and maybe, just maybe, some rain.

There’s something humbling about this process. You learn to accept the limitations of the season, the soil, and the plants themselves. You let go of the idea that everything has to look perfect all the time and focus instead on simply giving the plants what they need to make it through.

If you succeed in this effort—if you nurture the roots and keep the soil just moist enough—something miraculous happens. Once you trim back the ragged, dried-out old growth, you’re rewarded with a second spring-like infusion of greens and flowers. It’s as if the plants get a fresh start, a chance to show their resilience before the first freeze hits in December or so.

But that renewal doesn’t come easily. It takes some courage to get there.

Because when you cut things back, they look like they’re dead.

The only green left in them is often at the very tips of their branches. All their effort, all their energy, has been focused on just surviving—pushing growth outward, bit by bit, in the face of brutal conditions. Meanwhile, the growth at the base has been put on hold. The fresh, strong new growth has been stifled, waiting for a break in the heat and a chance to thrive.

And here’s the hard part: in order for them to grow strong and flower again, you have to cut them back. Way back.

So far back that they look like they might not make it. And the truth is, they might not. There’s always that risk.

But with a little extra water, some cooler mornings, and the chance to conserve the energy they had been expending on those overgrown branches, they probably will.

And when they do, the new growth is breathtaking. It’s like watching the plant take a deep, restorative breath. The new leaves and blooms are strong and vibrant, living out their purpose with renewed vitality. This transformation gives the gardener confidence—confidence to trust in the process, to believe in the plant’s will to survive, and to know that the pruning wasn’t an act of destruction but a gift. A chance for the plant to come back stronger, healthier, and more beautiful than ever before.

The trick is that you have to be patient. You have to trust the process. And then trust some more.

With practice and experience, it becomes easier to believe in this cycle of growth and renewal. The fear of pruning fades, replaced by excitement for what’s to come. The promise of what lies ahead is so much greater than the discomfort of letting go of what’s no longer serving the plant.

The last few weeks—and months, honestly—have given me plenty of opportunities to prune my life. In fact, the last few years have been a masterclass in learning how to let go of what no longer serves me.

I’ve taken a hard look at my work schedule and my business plan, identifying the parts that have been taking a lot of my focus and energy but aren’t contributing to my growth or my purpose. It hasn’t been easy to make those changes.

Letting go is hard.

It’s hard because the things I’ve let go of were once important to me—and to my clients. I care deeply about the people I work with. Over the years, many of them have become like family. We’ve practiced together, learned together, and supported each other through so much. The idea of stepping away from any part of that work felt, at first, like a betrayal. I worried about disappointing people, about letting them down.

But here’s the thing: pruning is necessary. Not just for plants but for people, too.

When we hold on to things simply because we always have, we risk missing out on the growth we’re meant to experience. By having the courage to cut back the old growth, we create space for new opportunities, fresh perspectives, and limitless possibilities to emerge.

Yes, it’s scary. It takes courage to let go of what’s familiar and safe, even if it’s no longer helping us thrive. It takes trust to believe that something better is waiting on the other side of that pruning. And it takes patience to sit with the discomfort of the in-between—the time when things look barren and uncertain but are quietly preparing for renewal.

But it’s always worth it. Always.

As I’ve worked through my own pruning process, I’ve found myself asking questions that I think are worth sharing:

• What in my life is taking energy but not contributing to my growth?
• What have I been holding on to out of fear, rather than purpose?
• What would happen if I let go of those things? What new growth might take their place?

How have you pruned your life to make room for new growth? Or how could you? What branches need cutting back so that the core of who you are can thrive?

Give it some thought. Write it down. Share it with someone you trust. And then take that first step toward change.

Pruning is an act of faith. It’s an acknowledgment that we are not meant to stay the same, that growth is an ongoing process, and that sometimes, in order to move forward, we have to let go.

Even when it feels like you’re alone in this process, remember: you’re not. We’re all navigating our own seasons of growth and renewal. My hope is that by sharing my experiences, you feel a little less alone and a little more inspired to take the steps you need to take.

Life is a garden, messy and unpredictable but full of potential. With care, courage, and trust, we can nurture it into something truly beautiful.