This Garden Is Not Withering

Most people don’t know this,

but my name—Jardine Faner—literally translates to Withering Garden.

When I first learned that, I laughed a little.

It felt too on-the-nose, like life had slipped me a secret I wasn’t ready to open yet.

But over time, it started to make sense.

Like my name had been holding a mirror up to who I was becoming.

People hear Withering Gardens and think it’s about decay.

About things falling apart, or fading, or being left behind.

But I named this project—this world I’m building—not as a monument to death,

but as an act of reclamation.

Because to wither is not to fail.

To wither is to rest.

To return.

To root.

There’s something sacred about the moments when nothing is blooming.

The quiet spells. The tired seasons. The feeling of being between selves.

This garden was never meant to be filled with loud success stories.

It was meant to be honest.

It was meant to hold people who are still becoming—people like me.

The ones who know what it feels like to try and explain a dream that doesn’t have shape yet.

The ones whose ideas are tender, unpolished, and waiting for the right season.

The ones who don’t always speak up, but carry entire worlds inside them.

I’ve withered many times.

Not from weakness, but from carrying too much without knowing how to let go.

Not because I lacked something, but because I was growing underground.

And I’ve come to believe that withering is a kind of wisdom.

It’s what the land does before it blooms again.

It’s what artists do when they disappear for a while.

It’s what kids do when they stop performing and just play.

This garden is not dying.

It’s composting.

It’s preparing for something honest, something soft, something alive.

I made Withering Gardens for anyone who needs time.

Time to think.

To reflect.

To start again.

It’s not a platform for perfection.

It’s a place for presence.

Whether you're journaling in Confessor, writing your first public Storyteller post, or just quietly reading with no intention to share—

you're still part of this garden.

So no, this garden is not withering.

It’s simply moving at its own pace.

Like me.

Like you.

Like any living thing that refuses to be rushed.

If you’ve ever felt too slow for the world around you—

I hope you know that’s not a flaw.

It might just be your way of listening.

And this might just be your season.

Welcome.

You belong here.