I stood in my greenhouse clutching scissors like I was about to commit a felony.
These weren’t plants.
These were my plant babies.
I grew them.
I watered them.
I whispered encouragement like a slightly unhinged garden aunt.
And now I was being told they were “too crowded.”

Excuse me???
They looked happy.
Thriving.
Living their best leafy lives.
But apparently, love without boundaries leads to chaos.
Who knew.

The word thinning showed up—
and my heart heard destruction.
Because when you’re wired like me,
making room feels an awful lot like abandonment.

I mean, how do you explain to a perfectly healthy kale plant
that it’s not being rejected—
it’s just being relocated, harvested early, or “released into purpose”?

I felt like I was ruining everything.
Until I realized…
nothing was being wasted.
Some plants were transplanted.
Some were harvested and nourished something immediately.

And the ones left behind?
They finally had space to become what they were always meant to be.
That’s when it hit me.
Pruning doesn’t change who we are.
It reveals it.
God isn’t cutting us down—

He’s cutting away what keeps us from becoming strong, rooted, and fruitful.
Not every removal is punishment.
Not every loss is failure.
Some things leave so we can finally grow into ourselves.

“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” — John 15:2

Pruning feels personal when you’re emotionally attached to the leaves.
But it’s the very thing that shapes the harvest.
Thinning is not killing.
It’s the painful, purposeful process of becoming.

And if I’m honest…
I still apologized to my kale,
needed a moment of silence,
and may require counseling before the next round of thinning.

Because apparently God and gardening are both committed
to making us who we’re supposed to be—
even when we’re dramatic about it.

With love, Chelle,