How indoor gardening, food security, and finding roots shaped my creative path
I didn’t plan on building a garden in my studio condo.
But then the world paused. Quiet streets. Empty shelves. Sirens echoing in the distance. It was 2020, and the future felt… uncertain, at best.
Somewhere between doomscrolling and rationing snacks, I found myself thinking about survival. Not in the distant, philosophical way—but in the real, immediate sense.
What happens if food runs out?
And so, with leftover containers, salvaged soil, and more hope than horticultural skill—I planted water spinach. Indoors. On a shelf by the window.
It wasn’t Pinterest-pretty. It smelled a little funky. But it grew.
And with every tiny sprout, something inside me shifted.
That little patch of green became my anchor. A quiet reminder that even in chaos, I could create something alive. Something useful. Something that fed me—physically, emotionally, metaphorically.
Growth doesn’t have to be graceful. Sometimes, it just has to be real.
By the time 2023 rolled around and the world started moving again, I knew it was time to let the indoor garden go. Mosquitos had discovered it. The spinach was getting leggy. My studio had turned into a swampy ecosystem that wasn’t quite built for long-term farming.
Still, I remember clearing it out slowly—grateful. Because what started as a food experiment had become something deeper: A reminder that I could root myself, even in strange conditions.
Fast forward to today—2025. I’m no longer farming spinach in my condo. I work in a hybrid strategic project management role, nestled inside a creative design ecosystem.
And weirdly? It still feels like gardening.
I meet brands in all kinds of growth phases:
Some are blooming but bound—full of potential, stuck in old containers. Some are tired and tangled, unsure of what’s next. Some are ready to plant something entirely new.
I help them figure out where they are. What they’re really trying to grow. And most importantly—what kind of ecosystem they need to thrive.
Sometimes that means a clearer brief. Other times, it’s air. Stillness. A little more space to stretch.
One of the brands I’ve started working with lately actually sells soil. Real, beautiful, nutrient-rich soil. And I love that.
Even if I haven’t helped them in any big, splashy way just yet, just being in their orbit feels familiar. Their care for the craft, their quiet reverence for the ground we stand on—it brings me back to those early days in my condo, coaxing spinach from sunlight.
Because here’s something I’ve learned, again and again:
Roots matter. Even if nothing’s showing on the surface yet—there’s always something happening underneath. That’s true for brands. It’s true for creative work. And it’s definitely true for me.
I’m still growing.
Still learning what to tend, what to prune, what to plant next. Still figuring out where I want to dig deeper—and what I want to bloom into.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of starting small.
Because I know: Plants don’t rush. They just reach for the light.