Many of my clients have described gardening as one of their favourite hobbies because it creates a sense of serenity. It gives them space to reflect, calm their thoughts, and step away from the chaos of their busy schedules.

As someone who spent the first ten years of her life in a village, you might think gardening would come naturally to me. In many ways, it should have. I was involved in turning the soil, planting, and helping to maintain the garden. And yet, I never really paused to appreciate the feeling that came with it.

In April, I decided to take up gardening for myself and step outside my comfort zone. I tilled the soil and created four small patches for lettuce, melon, huckleberry, and potatoes. As I worked, I felt both excited and anxious. My mind raced with questions: Would the seeds germinate? Would they grow well?

This was my first time tending a garden without anyone’s guidance, and all I had to rely on was what I remembered from watching my mother more than twenty years ago. To make matters worse, the rains stopped just as I had finally decided to begin. Once the groundwork was done and the seeds were planted, I waited for rain, only to realise that I would need to water the garden by hand until it arrived.

I headed to the utility room to rummage through the tools we had and found a hose, which I connected to the tap to water the garden by hand. For a week, I cared for it that way—until the hose broke. Suddenly, I was left wondering how I would keep the garden alive in 32-degree heat without it. Then I remembered how my mother used to carry water in a can to nourish her vegetables. So, once again, I went off to the supermarket, this time in search of a watering can.

That was the moment I realised gardening is not as simple as people sometimes make it sound. It requires patience, consistency, and thoughtful planning. As the weeks passed, I kept a close eye on every small change. As of June 3, I am thrilled to say that I have around 12 healthy bunches of lettuce growing and 16 potato shoots pushing through the soil. Unfortunately, the melon didn’t make it.  As for the huckleberry, I believe it has not adapted well to this climate in the way it would back home in Cameroon.

I remember my mother sprinkling ashes from the fireplace over the huckleberry plants to enrich the soil, but that is not something I have access to here in France. Even though the huckleberry did not survive, I decided to nourish the rest of the garden with organic compost instead. Now, whenever we peel carrots, cut tomatoes, eat bananas, or have any other biodegradable food scraps, I chop them into smaller pieces and place them in a small hole in the garden. In this way, the soil is gradually fed through decomposition.

To pass on what I am learning to my two sons, I let them help with weeding around the lettuce. Watching them work so joyfully brings me a deep sense of fulfilment. My three-year-old is still too young to understand exactly what he should and should not touch, so I give him the task of collecting garden waste and putting it into the green bin bag. His eager little voice always responds with a cheerful, “Yes, Mommy.” My six-year-old, on the other hand, can already tell the difference between the plants, so he carefully pulls out the unwanted weeds.

Now, as I work in the garden and watch my children interact with it, I understand more deeply why so many people cherish this hobby. Beyond the harvest, gardening has given me a new way to connect—with nature, with my memories, with my children, and even with my clients. What once felt like simple labour has become a source of joy, reflection, and quiet pride.