How Gardening At 50 Gave My Mother A New Lease On Life

When my mother was 50, she did not treat herself to a new wardrobe or an exotic vacation. She purchased soil. Bags of it. And clay pots, seedlings, and a pair of gardening gloves that were much too big for her dainty hands.

Until now, she had never been one of those people who hung around gardens. She enjoyed flowers in transit, of course, and sometimes strolled past the neighbour's bougainvillea when it tumbled over the gate. But gardening, with all its waiting and dirt and patience, had never been her vocabulary.

That was two summers ago on a hot afternoon, when she came home from the neighbourhood nursery with three hibiscus saplings. It was a spontaneous buy, she said. But it was also something else: a gesture of silent rebellion against the stasis that had settled in after decades of sameness—work, home, family, repeat.

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Midlife, in Bloom

There is a liberation and terror about turning 50. For my mother, it came during the pandemic, the fading urgency of household responsibilities, and the gentle awareness that time was passing more quickly than she cared to acknowledge.

Gardening provided her with an antidote. It gave her mornings meaning, afternoons of silence, and evenings spent anticipating what may blossom the following day. With her hibiscus bursting its first red flower, she termed the pleasure of it as "the kind you feel when your child takes their first step."

I smiled when she said that, but I got it. For someone whose life had been all about caring for others for a long time, taking care of plants was a means of channeling her care back to herself.

Gardening transformed her days. She wakes up earlier now, going out to the balcony with a cup of tea, testing soil moisture with the clinical accuracy of a scientist. She researches composting methods, tries organic pesticides in the form of neem and chili concoctions, and addresses her plants as if expecting an answer.

There is a ritualistic enjoyment to it. She begins by watering the tulsi first, praying softly. The marigolds are next, shining as coins in sunlight. Then she tends her tomato plant, which she calls, half in jest, ‘my problem child’.

I have seen her, bent over the pots, beads of sweat on her forehead, a stubborn look in her eyes. Gardening is not glamorous. It is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes heartbreaking when a plant succumbs to death in spite of all attempts. But maybe that is the very reason she loves it. At an age when most are pursuing certainty, she is embracing unpredictability.

The change hasn't been just psychological. My mother, who used to grumble about tight joints and exhaustion, now talks about increased energy. Her physician attributes the daily physical work—digging, lifting, squatting—to mild but regular exercise. Exposure to the outdoors has resulted in increased Vitamin D, reduced headaches, and even reduced stress levels.

But aside from the physical, garden work has imparted to her a kind of mindfulness. She is calmer, less fretful. She has learned, as she says, ‘to trust the slowness of life.’

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More Than a Hobby

I used to write off her fixation as exactly that—a pastime. But to her, it has become a lifeline. Gardening is about perseverance, grit, and hope that labour, even though imperceptible at first, will one day yield results. It is about learning to let go and trust that some things are not in her power: a late-spring rain, an insect infestation, the cycles of nature.

It has also built a new community. She gifts plants to relatives, shares gardening tricks in WhatsApp groups, and is part of a low-key sisterhood of women who, like her, are finding their way into gardening midlife.

I have closely seen how the balcony, previously an ordinary expanse of concrete, has become a verdant mosaic. Vines wrapped around the railing, mint leaves grew in repurposed containers, and an aloe vera plant towered improbably in a corner.

It dawned on me then: this wasn't merely about plants. This was about her reclaiming space, identity, and happiness in a stage of life that's commonly sketched out as one of downturn.

When I asked her what gardening is to her now, she smiled and replied, "It reminds me that it's never too late to grow."

For me, observing her care for her garden has been more than warm-hearted—it has been a lesson. At age 50, she sowed a seed not only in the ground, but within herself. And now both are flourishing.

Image courtesy: Freepik

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