I’ll never forget my second summer of gardening.
We were living in a small house with a tiny backyard, and I had carved out an even tinier garden the year before — four tomato plants, some cucumbers, and kale. One morning I pulled back the curtains and saw a rabbit happily chomping away at my kale like I had planted it just for him.
That fall, instead of pulling everything out, I chopped the dead plants down and left them to break down over winter. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
The following spring, tomato plants were popping up everywhere.
I had no idea the seeds would survive the winter, let alone grow into strong, productive plants all on their own. That year those volunteer tomatoes produced an unbelievable amount. I haven’t bought a tomato plant since. Seeds? Yes — because apparently I need to try every variety known to man. But actual plants? Never again.
That was the first time I really understood what people mean when they say a garden gives back.
Some plants do it once. Perennials do it for years.
When we moved into our forever home, I planted an asparagus bed — some root stock and some from seeds I started. If you want to shorten the wait, buy root stock. It cuts harvest time from four years down to about two. Even then, it’s a commitment.
Last year I could have harvested a few stalks, but there were only a handful, so I left them to strengthen the bed. This spring will be year three for the root stock, and I can hardly wait to finally harvest properly. That same patch will feed us for decades.
That kind of return changes how you see things.
We inherited raspberries and blackberries when we moved here, which felt like winning the lottery. I’ve had raspberry bushes at almost every house I’ve ever lived in — they would have been one of the first things I planted anyway.
Strawberries, though… they’ve humbled me.
Every year we used to go strawberry picking as a family and eat as many as we put in the basket. Once you’ve tasted a freshly picked strawberry, you can’t forget it. During the Covid years, when those outings stopped, I planted my own patch.
I think I’ve eaten maybe two strawberries from it.
The birds win every time.
I watch them turn from green to pink to almost-red and think, just one more day… and by morning they’re gone. So last fall I laid down two long rows of cardboard, covered them with wood chips and soil, and left them to settle over winter. This year I’m expanding the patch and adding netting. The small original bed can belong to the birds.
Apparently I’m a bit of a berry fanatic, because blueberries followed soon after. They’re slower to establish, but once they do, they’ll produce for years. Two years ago I planted four varieties from a local farmer, and this spring I’ll be adding more.
But fruit isn’t the only thing that keeps giving.
The herbs add their own kind of steady return. Thyme, sage, and oregano quietly come back each year. Parsley reseeds itself so reliably that I barely need to start it anymore — flat and curly varieties popping up all over the garden whether I planned for them or not. I really wish basil and rosemary could have made this list. I’d love for them to return year after year without needing to be started again.
Over time, herbs became more than just kitchen staples. As the cost of everything — including my beloved herbal teas — began to climb, I started planting with more intention. Peppermint, chamomile, lemon balm, and stinging nettle were among my first tea plants. They’re generous growers, which sounds lovely until you realize that some of them — mint, lemon balm, and stinging nettle especially — don’t just return, they spread. Aggressively. If you’re not careful, they’ll claim more territory than you intended. That’s wonderful if you love them and use them regularly, but it’s worth knowing what you’re getting into before planting.
Bee balm came into the garden because the pollinators adore it and the tea has a gentle, floral quality. Echinacea was planted out of curiosity about its medicinal properties. Lavender didn’t need much justification — the scent alone makes it worth the space. Valerian and marshmallow were planted more out of curiosity than confidence — experiments to see if they would grow well here and actually become something I’d use.
Over time, the tea and medicinal garden stopped feeling like an experiment and started feeling essential. Each plant proved itself in its own way — not just because it returned year after year, but because I actually used it. For tea. For small remedies. Or simply for the quiet satisfaction of growing something useful.
That usefulness isn’t limited to what goes into a teapot. Calendula reseeds itself so generously that I rarely need to think about it anymore. Its bright blooms slip easily into salads, jars for drying, or small batches of salve. Elderberry, yarrow, and hyssop support the pollinators while offering their own gifts back to us — returning steadily if given the space to settle in.
The more I garden, the more I’m drawn to plants that don’t ask to be replanted every spring.
Not because they’re always easy — they’re not — but because they reward patience. They ask you to think in years instead of weeks. They remind you that some of the most meaningful harvests don’t come quickly.
Plant once. Tend well. Harvest again and again.
That’s the kind of abundance that feels lasting.
And once you experience it, you start building your garden differently.
