The Worn Seed Packet

Plant a little hope every day. Harvest comes later.

There's a creased seed packet on my desk, edges soft from being carried in a jacket pocket all winter. It doesn't promise a garden by spring; it just says when you plant it, something might unfold. That's what hope feels like in an ordinary Tuesday—not a grand certainty, but a decision to water one small thing anyway, to believe in a future you can't see yet. Today, that might be sending a kind message you've been meaning to write, or choosing to try something again after it didn't work last time, or simply telling yourself you're worth the effort. The harvest isn't guaranteed. But nothing grows in soil we never tend.