Hello friends.​

If you were to peek into my potting shed this morning, you’d see a man currently losing a game of "Windowsill Tetris." There are seed trays balanced on stacks of books, a half-empty bag of compost acting as a doorstop, and a scattering of empty coffee mugs that I’ve definitely mistaken for watering cans at least once this week.

Welcome to the Mad March Rush. It’s that frantic, beautiful, slightly caffeinated window where the sun stays up just long enough to make us feel like we’re already behind schedule. But as we scramble to get our hands in the dirt, there’s a deeper rhythm at play—one that has a lot to say about how we handle the "rushes" in our own lives.

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There is a specific vibration in the air during March. It’s the horticultural equivalent of a starting pistol. After months of grey skies and staring at seed catalogues with the longing of a Victorian poet, the light finally shifts. Suddenly, the back of every seed packet feels like a ticking clock: Sow March to April. I find myself caught in the "Mad March Rush" every single year. It’s that desperate urge to do everything at once. I want the tomatoes started, the sweet peas pinched out, the dahlias woken up, and the borders cleared—all by Sunday tea time. We treat the garden like a project with a strict deadline, a series of boxes to be checked before the "real" season begins.

This year, I felt that familiar panic as I stood over a tray of snapdragons. I was worried I’d missed the window, worried the compost wasn't exactly the right temperature, and worried that my neighbours already had green shoots while I just had damp dirt. It’s an exhausting way to garden, isn't it? We turn a hobby meant for soul-soothing into a high-stakes race against the calendar. We hover over the propagators like worried parents, practically trying to pull the seedlings out of the ground with our minds.

But this frantic energy rarely produces the best results. In my hurry to "get ahead," I’ve often sowed seeds too early in cold soil, only to watch them rot, or I’ve crowded them together just to get them all planted, only to have them choke each other out. The "rush" is an internal state, not a seasonal requirement. The earth isn't actually asking us to sprint; it’s inviting us to join a march that has been happening for millennia.

The moment of clarity came when I checked on a tray of zinnias I’d started in a dark corner of the kitchen. Because I was in such a rush to see growth, I hadn’t waited to set up the proper lighting. The result? They had "bolted." They were tall, yes, but they were what gardeners call "leggy." They had stretched themselves so thin reaching for a light that wasn't there that their stems were translucent and fragile.

I realised then that my "progress" was an illusion. They looked tall, but they had no substance.

In our own lives, we often suffer from "leggy growth." We feel the pressure of the Mad March Rush in our careers, our fitness goals, and our personal healing. We look at the "blooms" on social media and feel like we’re falling behind. So, we stretch. We say yes to too many things, we try to fast-track our self-improvement, and we sprint toward goals before we’ve actually built the foundation to sustain them.

Like my fragile zinnias, when we grow too fast without enough "light"—without enough rest, reflection, or genuine support—we become brittle. We might look like we’re achieving great things, but the first stiff breeze of a life crisis can snap us in half because we haven't spent enough time on our roots.

The garden teaches us that the most important work happens underground, in the dark, and at a pace that cannot be forced. A seed doesn’t "rush" to germinate; it waits until the conditions are right. It prioritises the root first, anchoring itself deep into the soil before it ever dares to send a leaf toward the sky.

Nurturing ourselves requires that same permission to be slow. It means acknowledging that being "behind" is often a myth we’ve created. This March, I’m trying to embrace a different kind of rush—the rush of blood to the heart when I see a single, sturdy sprout, rather than the rush of anxiety to the head. I’m learning that a seedling planted two weeks "late" in warm, welcoming soil will almost always overtake the one planted "on time" in the cold.

We are not machines; we are gardens. And gardens don't need a manager with a stopwatch; they need a companion with a watering can and a bit of faith.