My friend Bree is a TikTok-famous homesteader. She makes growing things look possible and instills in me the confidence of a reality show bro screaming “Let’s Gooooo!” even when I’m unqualified.
I have a pitchfork collection that outnumbers me two-to-one, however, and a straw hat that reminds me that I am still “not a hat person.” So with a bit of lesbian bravado, I entered the arena of suburban farming.
It didn’t take long to realize that my talents are primarily overthinking, a penchant for making up words and a never-ending flow of unsubstantiated optimism. I am also one determined little bugger, so if I wanted to grow food and pretty things in my yard, I was certain I would do it… ish. I read “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Robin Wall Kimmerer, determined to be a better steward of the earth. I read “Compost Anything” by David the Good and tried to convince my wife we could reduce waste and use practically everything, including our pee, to feed the plants in our sandy soil. She was not game to urinate in a mason jar.
I consulted Bree’s videos to try and recreate her incredibly bountiful harvests. As much knowledge as I consumed to turn our suburban home into Green Acres, nature was going to teach me differently.
I’d love to dive into all of the meaningful life lessons I’ve gathered from walking through my yard, whispering sweet nothings to mango panicles about how someday they’ll be fruity. I have many more lessons that nature taught me via toxic sap, assassin bugs and fruit rats. For today I offer you this natural truth — living things are antifragile.
The term antifragile comes from Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s book, “Antifragile: Things That Gain from Disorder.” Taleb was a statistician who developed the concept while studying systems that not only withstand stress or volatility but benefit from them. A simple example of this in humans is exercise. I’d lift pitchforks of mulch. Then, I’d spend the next several days laid up because everything hurt and I regretted my life choices. In the process, I’d notice that my arm muscles look more toned, so I’d repeat the cycle.
We see antifragility in book banning due to the Streisand Effect, where attempting to suppress something draws more attention to it. When conservatives banned Maia Kolbabe’s “Gender Queer,” book sales increased 130%. When Senator Ted Cruz got his knickers in a swivet over Ibram X. Kendi’s “Antiracist Baby,” sales of the book increased 5,000%. I’m not saying that we should embrace book banning as a nifty marketing hack, but I can’t help but marvel at the unintended consequence of strengthening and amplifying the very stories some people try to hide. Bury them in dirt and they will still find the light.
My yard is a continual lesson in antifragility. In my initial gardening days, I babied my plants like a helicopter parent at Chuck E. Cheese — wanting to hover over them while also trying not to make contact with every dirty surface. If a bug flew near my plants, I was out there waving my moderately-toned muppet arms to shoo it away. When it came to watering, I wanted to quench their thirst when the sun felt too sunny.
Do you know what happens when you water a plant too often? Aside from potential root rot, when there is always water available, the roots learn to live at the surface of the soil. When roots stay superficial, the plant is not as strong. It’s a dry ground that forces roots to dig deeper in search of water.
Deeper roots mean more stability. It was a hard truth for me to swallow that my plant-coddling was setting them up for failure. Struggle can be strength. That’s not to say that the weight of a struggle is commensurate with the amount of growth. There is a breaking point where stress, suppression or the drought becomes too much. I have killed many plants this way as well. Contrary to Kelly Clarkson belting out “what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” we do not need to reach death for something to be considered “too much.”
Even antifragile beings need extra care. Our double-whammy hurricane season in Tampa was almost too much for my burgeoning banana forest and trellis of luffa. I took preemptive actions — staking up plants in a way that would likely support them best given the direction of the wind. (Let’s be honest, though. I couldn’t figure that out because I’m not that type of lesbian. My wife did it and I cheered for her and patted her butt like she had just scored a landscaping touchdown.)
We reinforced the trellis and took proactive measures to limit flooding. When the worst had passed, we went back in to do what we could to facilitate the plants’ healing and future growth.
Humans are antifragile. Toddlers fall but gain strength and knowledge each time they get back up. When we run or meditate, our threshold for what we can tolerate increases. When words cut us, we may eventually roll our eyes at the tired tropes or reclaim them to take back our power. (Looking at you, “queer.”)
For challenges to become growth events, we require preemptive care to ensure that we have the strength to withstand whatever blows our way. We can permit ourselves and others to take time for rest and repair to cultivate a healthy return.
As nature also taught me, this never happens alone. Our flourishing is interwoven. I keep that lesson tucked in the overall pocket near my heart.
Jillian Abby is the author of “Perfectly Queer” from Hay House and is on Substack at “Reframe with Jillian Abby.”
