There was a time I thought being a “good man” meant being the gardener for everyone else.
If I saw someone struggling, stuck, exhausted, I’d be there with my metaphorical trowel and watering can – fixing, nurturing, lifting, freeing. I’d pour myself into their soil until I was bone dry and their garden still looked the same… because they never actually picked up their own tools.
It’s taken me a long time to see that for what it is.
My garden
These days, when I think about my life, I see a garden.
Not perfect. Not manicured. But tended.
I see: a space I’ve cleared and replanted after years of neglect borders that didn’t used to exist plants that are finally starting to take root, slowly, honestly quiet corners that feel like mine
I’ve dug up old roots that went deeper than I knew. I’ve sat in the mud, exhausted, wondering if any of this would ever be worth it. I’ve cried doing this work – properly cried – because some of the things I had to pull out were wrapped round my identity.
But I kept tending it.
Day after day. Walk after walk. Page after page. Conversation after conversation.
And now, when I step back, I can see it: this garden is mine.
Not in a selfish, possessive way. In a hard-earned way.
It’s the space I’ve grown into through truth, therapy, writing, parenting, heartbreak, healing. It’s my peace.
And that means something important:
Not everyone gets to walk through it anymore.
Who gets access
In the past, my garden was a free-for-all.
If someone showed the slightest interest, I’d open the gate, hand them a mug of tea, and start apologising for the weeds before they’d even noticed them.
If they trampled things, I’d excuse it. If they never picked up a watering can, I’d tell myself they were “busy”. If they only came by when the sun was out, I’d convince myself that was enough.
Now?
No.
If you want to enjoy this garden, you don’t have to be perfect – but you do have to care.
You don’t have to know the Latin name of every plant – but you do have to respect the time it took to grow them.
You don’t have to spend all day weeding – but you do have to notice when something matters to me.
I’ve realised it’s not my job to hand people a beautiful space and hope they treat it well.
It’s my job to value what I’ve grown, and only share it with people who value it too.
Watching someone else’s garden
Recently, I’ve been watching someone else’s garden from a distance.
On the surface, she’s lovely – warm, funny, good company, the kind of woman people describe as “just really nice”. And I believe that. I see it. I felt it.
But underneath, I can see the pattern:
Her own garden isn’t being tended.
Not really.
It’s running on habit and adrenaline. Weeds of exhaustion, deadheads of old patterns, a lawn that never quite gets time to rest. Work, stress, responsibility, pushing through – all used like fertiliser to keep things going a bit longer, rather than stopping long enough to plant something new.
And here’s the thing I’ve had to admit to myself:
You can’t expect someone to tend your garden when they’re not even tending their own.
It doesn’t make them bad. It doesn’t make you better. It just means they don’t have the tools in their hands yet – or the belief it’s worth it.
The old pull
This is where the old Steve used to jump in.
The rescuer. The fixer. The one who’d feel the weight of someone else’s stuckness and think:
“I can help with that. I can make this easier. I can show them another way.”
I’d pick up my tools and start working in their garden – trimming, watering, coaxing, clearing – while mine quietly overgrew in the background.
It always came from love. It always came from a soft heart.
But it always ended the same way: They didn’t get truly free. I ended up exhausted. My garden suffered. I felt invisible in a space I’d helped to tidy.
This time, though, something different happened.
I felt the pull – the urge to step in, to soften the weight she carries, to be the calm place.
And… I didn’t move.
I noticed it. I nodded to it. And I stayed exactly where I was.
I didn’t slam the door on it. I didn’t pretend it wasn’t there. I just didn’t obey it.
That’s new.
Growth
Growth, for me now, isn’t about becoming “stronger” in the old sense.
It’s about this: being able to feel the old patterns rise recognising them without shaming myself and choosing differently, calmly, without drama
It’s being able to sit in my own garden and say:
“I can see you’re stuck. I can see you’re tired. I can see why you move the way you do.
But I’m not coming over the fence this time.
If you want something with me, you’ll have to step toward me, with your own tools in your hands.”
That doesn’t come from coldness. It comes from finally valuing what I’ve built.
My time. My energy. My presence. My peace.
They’re not for everyone. They’re not for people who only want sunshine without getting their hands dirty.
They’re for people who: tend their own garden know what effort looks like know how to show up know how to water connection, not just enjoy the view
Where I stand now
So I stay where I am.
In my garden. Feet on the ground. Hands a bit muddy. Heart open, but not spilling.
If someone wants to walk through this space with me, they’ll show it.
Not with words. With effort.
And if they don’t?
The gate stays closed. Not out of spite. Out of self-respect.
Because I’ve worked too hard on this garden to let it go wild for someone who doesn’t even bring a watering can.
That, for me, is growth.