Last spring, I killed a basil plant in under two weeks.

I didn’t mean to. I had all the right intentions—daily watering, a sunny spot, enthusiastic encouragement. But somehow, I managed to drown it, sunburn it, and probably suffocate it with attention all at once. When the last leaf turned crispy and brown, I felt like I’d failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

That was the moment I decided to scale down.

The dream versus reality

I used to fantasize about having a real garden. Raised beds bursting with tomatoes. A wall of climbing roses. Maybe a little greenhouse in the corner. Pinterest boards full of aspirational green spaces that bore no resemblance to my actual life: a second-floor apartment with one small balcony facing slightly the wrong direction.

The gap between the dream and reality made me give up before I really started. If I couldn’t have the cottage garden fantasy, why bother with anything?

What I didn’t realize: small gardens aren’t a consolation prize. They’re a different thing entirely. And sometimes, different is better.

The current setup

Three terracotta pots. That’s it.

One has rosemary—the most forgiving plant I’ve ever met. I forget to water it for a week and it just… deals with it. No drama. No wilting. Just sturdy green needles doing their thing.

One has a small mint plant that wants to take over the world. I have to pinch it back constantly. It’s aggressive in the best way. Every time I brush past it, the smell makes me want tea.

The third is currently empty. I’m deciding what to try next. There’s no rush.

Why this works better for me

Small gardens force a kind of intimacy that bigger ones don’t.

With three plants, I notice everything. A new leaf unfurling. A bug I need to deal with. The way the mint leans toward the afternoon sun. I’m not managing a project—I’m paying attention to individual living things.

When I had too many plants (brief experiment, 2023, ended badly), I was always overwhelmed. Who needed water? Who was struggling? I’d miss problems until they became catastrophes. Everything felt like an obligation.

Now, my garden takes about four minutes a day. Often less. A quick look. A splash of water. Maybe I snip some rosemary for dinner. That’s it.

Small garden principles I’ve learned

Start with one plant. Not five. One. Get to know it. Learn what it likes. Then, maybe, add another.

Choose forgiving varieties. Rosemary. Mint. Chives. Things that don’t demand constant attention. Success builds confidence.

Accept imperfection. Some leaves will yellow. Some plants will struggle. This doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it means you’re gardening.

Match your container to your lifestyle. Bigger pots need less frequent watering. If you travel often, small pots will punish you.

Use what you grow. Even a tiny herb garden feels purposeful when you’re cooking with it. Rosemary in the pasta, mint in the tea. The connection from balcony to plate is short and satisfying.

The unexpected part

Here’s what surprised me: the smaller my garden got, the more I cared about it.

When I had aspirational lists of plants I “should” grow, I felt distant from all of them. Now, with three pots, I’m invested. I talk to the rosemary sometimes. (Don’t tell anyone.) I get genuinely excited when the mint puts out new runners.

There’s something to be said for constraint. Limits create focus. Focus creates connection.

What’s next

I’m thinking about trying cilantro in the third pot. Or maybe lettuce, though I’ve heard mixed things. A friend recommended strawberries, but I don’t trust myself with fruiting plants yet. Too much pressure.

For now, I’m enjoying the indecision. The empty pot isn’t a failure—it’s potential. Whenever I’m ready, it’ll be there.

If you’ve ever felt intimidated by “real” gardeners with their elaborate setups, I get it. Start smaller than you think. A single pot. One plant you actually like. See what happens.