Unless a seed is planted, it will never grow

There’s an old saying: “Unless a seed is planted, it will never grow.” It sounds simple enough — almost too obvious to hold any real weight. But the older I get, the more I realize how many people are walking around carrying seeds they’ve never dared to plant. Ideas never pursued. Words never said. Dreams quietly buried beneath layers of doubt, fear, or the false comfort of routine.

We all carry them. Seeds of talent. Seeds of kindness. Seeds of possibility. Some come to us in moments of clarity — a sudden burst of inspiration while riding a train, a stirring line from a book, a conversation that lingers. Others are quieter. The dream we had when we were children, long buried under bills and job titles. The wish to forgive someone we’ve been avoiding. The hope to start again.

But carrying a seed isn’t enough. You could hold it for years and nothing would change. It would never bloom, never branch out, never stretch toward the sky. Because seeds only come alive when we decide to let them go — when we drop them into the soil of uncertainty, water them with faith and give them time.

That last part — time — is the hard one.

Because here’s the thing: once you plant a seed, it disappears. It sinks into darkness. It doesn’t clap its leaves together and thank you for your effort. It just lies there. Silent. Still. There’s no fanfare, no applause, no instant reward. And in a world obsessed with quick results, we’ve grown impatient with anything that takes time. We want shortcuts. Instant noodles. Viral success. Overnight transformation. But a seed doesn’t work that way. It demands patience. It demands trust.

When I look back on my life, I realize the most meaningful things grew out of seasons where nothing seemed to be happening. The years I spent unsure of who I was becoming. The projects that started quietly, unsure if anyone would care. The relationships that began with a simple “Hello” and no expectations. Even becoming a teacher, something that has now defined so much of my identity, started with a single hesitant yes to a lecture I didn’t feel qualified to give.

I didn’t know, then, that I had just planted a seed.

It didn’t grow overnight. In fact, it felt awkward at first. I stumbled over my words, questioned if I was making any sense, and feared I’d wasted everyone’s time. But I knew I had to keep watering it — to show up, to listen, to stay curious. And little by little, something began to take root. Not just the ability to teach, but the clarity to see the bigger picture: that every student is a seed, too.

Some of them grow fast. Others take time. But all of them need someone who believes that growth is possible, even when it’s not visible yet.

There’s a kind of magic in that.

We rarely talk about the courage it takes to start something without knowing how it will end. To begin again after failure. To say “I love you” when you don’t know if it will be returned. To apply for that job. To write the first sentence of that book. To forgive yourself for something no one else even remembers. All of these are seeds.

And yes, not all of them will become trees. Some might wither. Some might not survive the drought. But even a failed attempt is better than carrying a seed that never had a chance.

Because seeds are not meant to be preserved. They are meant to be planted. Risked. Released.

Somewhere along the way, we were taught to protect ourselves. To wait until we’re sure. To only act when the outcome is guaranteed. But life doesn’t work like that. Growth doesn’t work like that. The most beautiful things in this world came from someone who took a chance. A painter who dipped their brush. A singer who opened their mouth. A parent who held their newborn for the first time and decided, “I will try my best.”

It’s terrifying, yes. But it’s also how we grow. Not just as individuals, but as species. As people. As world.

And here’s the quiet truth no one says enough: You don’t have to feel ready to begin. You just have to begin.

Plant the seed.

It can be messy. It can feel like nothing’s happening. But keep watering it anyway. Keep showing up. Keep believing in small things. Because someday, when you least expect it, something green will break through the soil. And you’ll realize it was never about the speed. It was about the start.

So if you’re carrying a dream, an idea, a longing, this is your sign. Stop waiting for the perfect moment. Stop rehearsing in your head. The conditions will never be ideal. The sky won’t always be blue. But the soil is waiting.

And unless a seed is planted, it will never grow.