The Sacred Season of Unbecoming Inspired by Lola’s Garden

This morning, I read something that hit me harder than any corporate leadership seminar or self-help podcast ever could.

It was a reflection from someone named Lola. No charts. No formulas. Just dirt, petals, and a soul-level truth from her backyard.

“There is no growth without some ugliness or unbecoming.”

That sentence stopped me. It peeled back something I didn’t even know I was carrying.

Because lately—whether you’re in between jobs, rebuilding your identity, or simply navigating the wear and tear of life—everything feels like it demands blooming.

Be impressive. Be productive. Be visible. Be polished.

Always blooming.

Never resting.

Never shedding.

Never becoming something else.

But Lola’s words? They flipped the script.

She wrote about her garden. How, after plants bloom, they begin to change. The beauty fades. The petals fall. And for a while, things get… ugly. Unremarkable. Quiet.

Take the iris, for example. It blooms in May, then begins a long process of transformation. By August, the dried-up bloom becomes a seed pod, finally ready to open and release what was quietly forming all along.

For months, nothing about it screams “growth.”

But growth is exactly what’s happening.

Then there’s the columbine—blooming and forming seed pods at the same time. A chaotic, beautiful mess of life, death, and rebirth on a single stalk. The delphiniums? Lola says they look like they’re falling apart for most of the summer, but she leaves them be. She trusts the process. She knows the seeds of tomorrow are hiding inside what looks like a breakdown today.

And honestly, that garden sounds a lot like some of us right now.

Maybe you were laid off.

Maybe your big plans stalled.

Maybe your identity was wrapped up in a role you no longer have.

Maybe you’re stuck in a chapter that doesn’t photograph well.

But here’s the truth: you are not finished. You are forming.

There is purpose in the unbecoming.

There is strength in the drying out.

There is value in not being the highlight reel.

In a world that only praises the bloom, it takes courage to let yourself go through the quiet seasons. To trust that rest is not laziness. That change isn’t failure. That the chaos isn’t wasted—it’s compost for something new.

We don’t yell at a flower to stay in full bloom all year.

We don’t shame the soil for going still in winter.

But we shame ourselves when we’re not constantly producing.

Maybe it’s time we see ourselves more like Lola sees her garden.

Let it get messy.

Let things fall apart.

Let the bloom become a seed pod.

And trust that what’s happening in the dark, in the quiet, in the unbecoming—is sacred work.

Because when that seed finally opens…

What grows next might not look like the version of you that came before.

It might be stronger. Wilder. Truer.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s the version that can finally breathe.

Thank you, Lola.

You didn’t just share a gardening lesson.

You reminded us all that growth isn’t always beautiful.

But it is always worth it.