Written and Narrated By: Kara Lea Kennedy

I hoisted a waterlogged lily sideways onto the potting bench, compressing each side forcefully like a paramedic performing CPR. I threw a sharp trowel into the mass of roots, muscling them apart before plopping the divided plants into various pots. I was working for a pond nursery, a dream summer job. The heat and humidity of the greenhouses were a welcome change to the harsh, dry winds of the Colorado plains howling just outside the glass doors.

Most of the gardening around my childhood home was a frantic race against a short growing season—three months for vegetables and annuals. Working in a greenhouse opened up a new world to me. Here, plants thrived, protected from drought, gophers, and adolescent boys who didn’t check their rearview mirrors. Lush lilies rapidly outgrew their pots; frogs hopped into large tubs, and the air pulsed with life—sometimes, too much life. Which is what led to plants being so ruthlessly divided, and a potting bench that resembled the sacrificial altars I’d read about in Leviticus.

Years later, I planted dozens of snapdragon seeds on a tray under indoor lights. Slowly, my tender care was rewarded as the tray filled with tiny sprouts. Looking closer, I saw that each “pod” had grown multiple seedlings. My heart sank, knowing that gardening wisdom demanded I “thin” them. To the drought-scarred Colorado girl who had carried buckets of water out to languishing pines while the wind sucked all the moisture from my eyes, the idea of cutting any plant felt like sacrilege.

“Why must this be the way?”

Finally, reason, research, and faith overtook emotion. When I snipped away dozens of seedlings, I was shocked to see mildew had been lurking under the façade of abundance. The nefarious hairs had spread over the soil, suffocating the roots. I carefully scraped it out, exposing the soil to air and light. Weeks later, my garden was filled with sunset-colored blooms. Had I not cut away the “good stuff,” they would have died.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wisely said,

“As the gardener, by severe pruning, forces the sap of the tree into one or two vigorous limbs, so should you stop off your miscellaneous activity and concentrate your force on one or a few points.”

As a mom, it is my job to regularly and diligently analyze what needs to be cut away. Are my children’s critical virtues, connections, or conversations being suffocated by distractions?

I once heard a commander’s wife, someone I greatly respected, say that as a mom she hadn’t been attending all the squadron’s “mandatory fun,” and she made no apology for it.

As a new mom myself, with a baby on my hip and obligations on my calendar, her statement broke shackles off my mind. Here was our fearless leader’s wife—the one who should be hosting, organizing, and fundraising—saying those things weren’t her priority. I was never the same again. If I couldn’t make it to something, I didn’t. Throughout those years, my family and I had room to breathe and connect.

I hate that life can so quickly mutate from nurturing a few worthy endeavors into constant management. I want my family to feel like a place of connection, not a corporation. That requires looking at the full, green seed tray of our lives and determining what must be meticulously, even ruthlessly, removed. If our heart rates are constantly elevated, our hair is falling out, and our patience is thin, can it mean that there are too many “good things” inhaling a limited supply of oxygen? Can we eliminate unnecessary stuff, breathe deep, and open up spaces in our lives?

My “baby” is now 15 years old. Last night, after a trying day at school, she said, “Mama, will you hold me?” She knows I have margin. She knows she can ask. That’s the kind of growth she—and we—need.

The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe