On Patience & Boundaries

Broccoli Taught Me Patience. A Bus Shelter Taught Me Boundaries

Broccoli and Bus Shelter. Yes, that is how I’m starting this blog, and no, I haven’t lost the plot. Well, not yet at least. A vegetable and a structure. Two words that became a mantra in my life. Stay with me; let me land.

The broccoli taught me how to keep going when I can’t see results. The bus shelter taught me accountability, boundaries, and an end to people-pleasing. Together they remind me that progress needs care on the inside and courage on the outside.

OK, here’s how it began.

I planted broccoli earlier this year. First growing season, and I can confidently say I had no idea what I was doing. Thank God for YouTube University. I took about twelve courses at once, all taught by cheerful strangers who disagreed on everything from compost to moon phases. One insisted on speaking kindly to seedlings; another said ignore them so they build character. So my poor plant got Bach in the morning and Beyoncé by lunch. I named it Broc Lee for morale. The caterpillars called it brunch.

Between googling is my plant dead or dramatically squinting at the leaves like a detective, I learned the magic of tiny, consistent care. Water, patience, and the courage to try again even when the garden looks like a salad bar for insects. I had no idea how to care for broccoli, but learning as I go is usually my approach.

If you've ever started something new with equal parts enthusiasm and confusion. You are in the right place. This blog post is about growing broccoli, yes, but mostly it's about growing a life you actually like, one small slightly nibbled florette at a time.

They sprouted beautifully at first. Then the caterpillars arrived. I couldnt remove them fast enough. I've since learnt that the caterpillars are from adult butterflies that found my broccoli, lay eggs under the leaves, and the hatchlings start feeding. the little buggers.

The leaves looked ruined. I was sure the plant wouldn't survive, let alone give me a harvest. Every day the white butterflies came back. Everything I tried failed.

Still, I continued to water, feed, check, and pick off the little munchers. Weeks later I stepped outside to find a perfect little florette. I squealed like a kid at a science fair. The boring routine had worked. The plant wasn’t destroyed. It was quietly building.

It got me thinking about action, intention, and failure. Sometimes when we try something new, we can’t see the outcome. Perhaps, like me, you’ve started a fitness journey, enrolled on a course, or are working towards a new job or promotion. It can look messy for a while. You might feel like you’re failing because the “leaves” look chewed, and the plant looks lifeless. This taught me two things.

1) Sometimes growth happens even when I can't see it.

2) Even when I feel like I am failing because I can't see the outcome, just keep going. At times, that feeling prompts me to stop, reflect and pivot if needed, but I keep going.

It was a bigger lesson than I expected. This tiny plant, my boring little routine, and no proof that anything was working, and I still kept going. I wanted to see it through. Even if it failed, I wanted to know I’d done my part. That felt important. I couldn’t see growth on the surface, but something was clearly happening underneath. The watering, the feeding, the checking, none of it looked impressive, but it mattered. Progress is still and invisible, a lesson I will never lose sight of. You don’t always get a sign. You just keep showing up.

It also made me reevaluate other aspects of my life. I’ve quit before when I didn’t see results fast enough, or when something felt like it was dragging on. It made me realise that in the past, I stopped because it felt too hard. Because I didn't trust myself. Because I wasn't confident in my abilities. Whatever the reason, I saw stopping as a failure. What my broccoli has now taught me is that I was scared, and the fear of failure crippled me. Admitting this out loud for the world to read is quite scary. But I am no longer scared of failure or of sharing that I don't always have it all figured out. Many people don't, regardless of how put-together they may seem.

Content creation is a good example. I love making it, it’s my creative outlet, but hitting publish and hearing crickets can sting. The broccoli reframed it. No instant result doesn’t mean “it didn’t work.” Sometimes the gains are off-stage for a while. It’s easy to call that a waste. The broccoli gave me perspective. Not seeing instant results isn’t the same as “it didn’t work”. Sometimes the work needs time. Sometimes the gains are off-stage for a while. In fact, sometimes the outcome doesn't look anything like you imagined it would be. My job is to keep showing up, stick to the basics, and let the outcome unfold when it’s ready, and be willing to accept that sometimes things don't go as planned. Sometimes, the outcome appears different, and the path may change.

Failure isn’t my enemy; that was the biggest lesson. I truly believe failure is a valuable collaborator in learning. Too often, when we don’t get something right, we sit in the feeling that says, “You didn’t get it right,” instead of asking, “What did I learn this time that I can use next time?”

I agree, it took some time to land. It's Sunday afternoon, and I am imagining you sitting on the sofa with a cuppa or tipple of your choice, phone in hand and reading your favourite lifestyle blogger...see what I did there?! Anyway, let's continue. Where were we....Bus Shelter.

Almost a decade ago, on a late, rainy Massachusetts night, the fairy and I were stranded at a bus shelter after changing our plans to suit others. Wet, cold, tired, and with no ticket. We realised we’d sidelined our needs, people-pleased, and and trusted others to “sort it”—they didn’t. We were dropped in the middle of nowhere with no plan. Sitting there, we realised we’d handed over our power and shaped the experience we were now stuck in.

It’s easy, in moments like that, to look everywhere but at yourself. Anger at others is simpler than sitting with your own accountability. But for us, that’s a non-starter. Blaming implies we had no choice. We did. Since then, “bus shelter” has become a phrase in our relationship. A signal to pause, look inward, own your part, and choose differently next time or in that moment, activating your "no, or not right now".

It isn’t about blame; it’s about agency and compassion.  We don’t outsource our choices, even when the situation is messy. One of us only has to say, “This feels like a bus shelter,” and we both know what it means: step back, check the story, take responsibility, reset the plan. Name what happened, reframe it, soothe. Set a boundary before you set off. Sometimes we leave without a fuss or a fight, just a clear no.

Broccoli is patience. How do I keep going without proof? Bus shelter is accountability. Where did I give away my power, and how do I take it back?

One stops us repeating old patterns, the other keeps us faithful to new ones. They’ve become a ritual in our relationship, used in ordinary and everyday moments.

When content is released and engagement is quiet, we call it 'broccoli' and keep creating. When we feel that tug to people-please and over-promise, we say 'bus shelter' and protect our time. When exercise slips after a hard week, we don’t write ourselves off, we lace up, do ten minutes, and call it broccoli. And if we’ve let others set the terms, we name the bus shelter and make a plan that honours our needs.

What I love most is how these words move us from feelings to choices. The broccoli says action matters even when the outcome is invisible. The bus shelter says I can’t keep complaining about a journey I allowed someone else to drive.

Between the two, I’ve stopped waiting for perfect conditions or perfect behaviour, mine or anyone else’s. I return to myself. I water the thing. I keep going.

If any of this lands, try listening for your own versions. You may already have a bus shelter moment. The night you stayed quiet to keep the peace and paid for it later. You may already be in a broccoli season. Showing up, building trust with yourself even if no one can see the change yet. Give them names, you can even borrow ours. Shared language turns fog into something you can work with.

Before you close the page, take a minute with these:

• Where, lately, have you handed over your power? What’s one honest step that returns it to you?

• What in your life is “broccoli” right now—worth tending without quick results? What’s today’s small act of care?

• Thinking about a recent setback, what did it teach you that you can use next time?

• If you borrowed our words, where would “bus shelter” help you pause, and where would “broccoli” help you persist?

Choose one uncomfortable action in the next 24 hours and do it.

With love always,

Mon ♡ Nai