Pull the Weeds, Plant the Truth: Living Loud in Your Own Garden
Ever been handed a life script that fits like grandpa’s hand me downs itchy, restrictive, and a color you’d never pick out yourself? You know the one: the job you hate but pays “so well,” the marriage everyone praised but made you feel like day old pizza crust. I followed mine because society, my family, even the damn neighbor’s cat made it sound like gospel.
Until one morning I woke up, stared at my coffee, and realized I was sipping on someone else’s watered down Folgers instead of my robust, chaos infused espresso Cafe Bustello.
Rewriting my own rules started as awkwardly as a giraffe on roller skates. I tossed out “shoulds” like expired milk messy, smelly, and entirely overdue. But holy hell, once I began planting seeds in dirt I chose myself, the freedom tasted better than tacos on a Tuesday. Reclaiming my narrative wasn’t pretty, but damn if it wasn’t exhilarating.
“Owning your weird” isn’t about crafting quirky Instagram bios it’s that raw moment when you admit you prefer monster movies to brunch, and pajamas over jeans, unapologetically. Real talk: I’ve carried a “shame script” around that said being emotional or sensitive meant weakness. Ready to torch that bullshit like a marshmallow at a bonfire I’m not weak; I’m emotionally magnificent, dammit.
Truth is, I still sometimes water myself down faster than cheap beer at a frat party, especially around people whose eyebrows arch judgmentally higher than my garden trellises. If no one had opinions about my life? You’d find me in a tiny shack on a mountain, gardening naked and laughing wildly at the sunrise, full blown feral and happier than a pig in fresh compost.
I’ve buried the bold, outspoken part of me the one that makes polite company clutch their pearls harder than grandma at a midnight séance. They labeled me “too much,” as if enthusiasm should come in fucking teaspoons. Last betrayal? Yesterday, when I nodded along instead of calling out a friend’s toxic gossip because god forbid I risk not being “likable.”
Feeling like you don’t belong is like being a pineapple in a potato patch uncomfortable, obvious, and absolutely illuminating. It reveals your true ecosystem is elsewhere. You’re not the problem, plant warrior; you’re just growing in the wrong damn garden.
I’m reclaiming my so called “broken” parts by wearing them openly no more masking cracks with pretty paint. Each scar tells a story louder and prouder than any trophy shelf. If my life fully reflected my values and freak flags, I’d be living boldly, writing weird ass poetry under full moons, and welcoming emotional chaos with open arms instead of scheduling it between Zoom meetings.
Boundaries? Hell yes, I’m planting boundaries thicker than blackberry bushes and twice as prickly. Standards? Non negotiable. My garden now has gates lovely, sturdy, and ready to slam shut on any bullshit. To anyone still tangled up in someone else’s expectations: CLOSE THAT BOOK, Plant-Warrior. Your own narrative awaits, messy, magnificent, and 100% mulch approved.
Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon
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