From Seed to Soil: Where It All Began (Part 1)

Before we get into the growing charts and the garden photos, I need to tell you the real story here. Because this isn’t just a blog about loofahs.  

The season I started growing these—my very first time ever—was the exact same season I became my dad’s full-time caregiver. It was also the same season I decided to start a business. Almost overnight, the weight of the world landed squarely on my shoulders, and I had to figure out who I was and how to hold it all up.  

In the middle of that chaos, I realized I was tending two living things at the exact same time: my dad and those delicate loofah vines. Both completely depended on me to show up. Both were changing faster than I could keep up with, teaching me things I didn't even know I needed to learn.  

My dad has passed away since then, and I miss him terribly. But these loofahs are still growing. Every time I walk out to the garden, I carry him out there with me.

Two Seeds. One Season.

Doing good so far

I don’t think people fully understand what it means to be a full-time caregiver until they’ve lived it. And I mean full-time in every sense of the word—there was no clocking out.  

The mornings started early—not because I was waking my dad up, but because he was usually the one getting me up. He kept his routine, and he made sure I kept it right along with him. But unlike most caregiving stories you hear, our days didn't involve packing up and heading out. All of his doctors, his specialists, his labs, and his pharmacy runs—it was all delivered right here. We never left the house.  

Because we stayed in, our home became everything. I had to become the coordinator for a rotating door of medical professionals, the person who managed a pharmacy’s worth of deliveries, and the one who remembered every single medication, dosage, and side effect. You learn a whole new language of medical forms and insurance calls just to advocate for the person you love right from your living room.

And right alongside all of that, I’d step just outside the door to check on my seedlings. Pressing my finger into the soil to feel if it needed water. Watching for the first signs of life.

Two living things. Both completely depending on me to pay attention. Both requiring me to show up—every single day, no excuses. Not when I was tired. Not when I was scared. Not when I didn’t know what I was doing. I had to show up anyway. For my dad inside the house, and for those vines just outside it.  

That kind of role reversal—caring for the person who once cared for you—doesn’t come with a manual. Neither does growing something you’ve never grown before. In both cases you just show up, every single day, and figure it out as you go.  

Being a caregiver for my dad was truly the hardest job of my life. It really was, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would—without hesitation. Every all-nighter, every stressful delivery, every moment I didn’t think I had anything left and found out I did. I would do it all again for him.  

And In The Middle Of All That, I Started A Business

Not because the timing was perfect. It wasn’t. But because I needed something that was mine. Something I was building forward while so much else inside those four walls felt uncertain and heavy and out of my hands.  

Iron and Ivy gave me a place to put my creativity, my energy, my sense of self—outside of the caregiving, outside of the grief that was already quietly gathering even before I lost him. The business became proof that I was still here. Still growing. Still becoming something.  

And then came the loofahs.  

The Seed Stage — Starting From Nothing

Every loofah starts here. Small. Still. Full of potential that you just have to trust is in there, even though you can’t see it yet.  

That first season of caregiving felt the same way. I was starting from nothing—no experience, no training, no roadmap. Just a deep love for my dad and a decision that I was going to figure this out no matter what.  

I started my seeds inside, nestled into starter mix where it was warm and sheltered from the world. And I was doing the exact same thing for my dad—creating the safest, most comfortable environment I could right there at home. Controlling what I could control. Protecting what I could protect. Waiting to see what would take root while we stayed inside together.

I had never grown a loofah in my life. And I had never been a caregiver before either. But you don’t wait until you’re ready for things like this. You just start. And then you show up the next day. And the next.  

Into the Dirt —

Creating a safe, warm space to start from nothing.

Once those seeds were settled in their indoor trays, the real work began. And it was quiet work—the kind that doesn’t look like much from the outside but demands everything of you on the inside.

I’d check on those indoor seedlings in the morning before the day got away from me. Press my finger into the soil. Adjust the light. Make sure conditions were just right. It became a ritual—a few minutes that were just still before the rest of the day started.  

Caring for my dad had its own rhythms, too. Morning routines that had to be done the same way every day. Medications at the exact right times. Meals that worked for him. Noticing the smallest changes—when something was a little off, when he seemed better, when we needed to call the home health doctor. You learn to read someone the way you learn to read a plant. Slowly, carefully, by paying close attention every single day.  

There were days I was running on no sleep. Days where I didn’t know how I was going to get through the next hour, let alone the whole day. But those seedlings needed checking and my dad needed me, so I got up. Every time. That’s the only way it works—for a garden and for the people you love.  

Loofah roots need room to stretch. Loose soil, good drainage, space to go deep. Even while they were starting small indoors, I knew they couldn't stay there forever. They needed to build the strength to handle the real world. I understood that in a way I hadn’t expected to—because I was learning the same thing about people. About my dad. About myself.

The First Signs of Life — Something Takes Hold

The morning I saw the first sprout push through the soil in that indoor tray, I stopped and just looked at it for a long moment.

Something so small. Something I had planted with my own hands, in the middle of one of the hardest, heaviest seasons of my life—and it was growing.  

There were moments with my dad that felt the same way. A good day after a string of hard ones. A morning where he seemed more like himself. A moment where he laughed, or squeezed my hand, or said something that reminded me of who he’d always been. Small signs of life that meant everything.  

You learn to celebrate those tiny victories when you’re a caregiver. You learn that a good morning is worth everything. That a single moment of ease in the middle of hard days is a kind of miracle. And those moments kept me going—kept me showing up the next day and the day after that, no matter what.  

I needed those signs—in the soil and in that house—more than I knew.  

Hardening Off — Learning to Handle the Real World

Before seedlings can actually go out into the garden beds, you have to harden them off. You take them outside for just a little while each day—expose them to the wind, the direct sun, the temperature changes—and then you bring them back inside where it's safe. A little more each day. You build up their tolerance slowly so that when they finally go out for good, they’re strong enough to handle it.

I have a picture from the day I finally took those seedlings out of their safe little indoor setup to move them to the raised garden beds. And honestly—they looked rough. Drooping, stressed, uncertain. I stood there looking at them thinking, I don’t know if these are going to make it.  

I still look at that picture sometimes. And every time I do, I see myself.  

Stressed to the max and leaning,but refusing to quit.

Because that’s exactly how I felt some days during that season. Pulled out of anything familiar. Put into something bigger and harder and wide open. Not sure I had what it took. Not sure I was going to make it through. I don’t fully know why the weight hit me that way—I just know that it did. And I think anyone who has ever been a caregiver knows that exact feeling, even if they’ve never said it out loud.  

But here’s what I know now, looking back: that plant was determined to make it. It didn’t give up. It just needed to get its roots in the ground and find its footing—and once it did, it took off into something that will honestly blow your mind when you see it today. From that rough, drooping little seedling that I wasn’t sure would survive the week—to what it became. That transformation is real. And it happened because it refused to quit.  

Just like I did. Just like you can too.  

Every hard day built something in me I didn’t have before. Every all-nighter, every scary moment, every time I had to make a decision I wasn’t sure about—it was all strengthening something. Because I couldn’t not show up. There was no one else. My dad needed me and I needed to be there, and so I was. Every single day, no matter how hard it got.  

Caregiving grows you whether you want it to or not. It takes everything soft in you and makes it stronger without making it harder. That’s the strange gift of it. You come out the other side different—more patient, more present, more capable than you knew—and you didn’t get there any way except straight through.  

Into the Garden — Ready to Become What They’re Meant to Be

Planting day felt like finally being able to exhale.

Out in the real world, finding their footing.

I took each seedling and put it in the ground at the base of its iron trellis. I remember stepping back, looking at them, and just breathing. These weren’t fragile little things sitting in an indoor starter tray anymore. They were out in the real world now, and they had what they needed to grow.

There were moments like that with my dad, too. Days where we finally found our footing and our rhythm. The routine would be working smoothly, he’d be comfortable, and I’d feel a brief flash of confidence—like okay, we’ve got this. All those long days of just showing up had built something incredibly solid between us inside those walls.

From that point on, the vines started to climb. They spread across the iron, reaching for every bit of light and space they could find. And my dad and I settled into the life we had built together in that season. It wasn’t the life either of us had planned or expected, but it was ours, and there was so much love in it.

He’s Gone. But They’re Still Growing.

I lost my dad in December 2025. The grief of losing the person you just spent every single day caring for—that is its own particular kind of heavy. You give absolutely everything you have to keeping someone safe and comfortable, and then they leave anyway. The silence they leave behind in a house is enormous.

I miss him every day. I miss our mornings together. I miss being needed in that exact way. Honestly, I even miss the hard parts, because the hard parts meant he was still here with me.

But I wouldn’t trade that time for the world. Not one single day of it. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would do it without a second thought. Every all-nighter, every stressful delivery, every moment I didn't think I had anything left to give and somehow found a way—I’d do it all again for him.

And now, when I walk out to my garden, those loofahs are still growing. These are the exact vines I planted when he was still sitting right beside me. The ones I tended at the same time I was tending to him—showing up for both of them, every single day. There’s something in that I can’t quite put into words, except that it feels like he’s still a part of it. He's in the soil, he's in the vines, he's in the very thing that started growing in the season he was still here.

Two living things. I could only keep one of them.

But the one that’s still growing carries the memory of the other. And that means something to me every single time I step outside.

Iron and Ivy — The Name Said It All Along

I want you to think about something for a moment.

Those loofah vines—the ones that started as rough, drooping little seedlings I wasn’t sure would survive the week—have completely taken over that iron trellis out back. They’ve covered it. They’ve wrapped around every bar, every joint, and every single inch of forged iron. It’s something soft, living, and green just completely embracing something hard and unyielding.

Then and now: My very first loofah. Proof that if you don't quit,the growth is real.

When you stand there and look at it, you realize nature did that. A living thing did that to a piece of iron. It didn’t force it, and it didn’t fight it. It just grew—steadily, persistently, day by day—until it turned a cold iron trellis into something beautiful.

That’s the name. That’s the whole meaning behind the brand: Iron and Ivy.

The iron doesn’t disappear. It’s still there—still strong, still holding everything up, still the structure that makes the growth possible in the first place. But the living thing wraps around it, through it, and over it, and together they become something neither one could ever be on its own.

That’s what that season did to me. That’s what caregiving does. That’s what love does. It doesn’t break the hard things—it grows right around them. It makes them beautiful.

Why This Blog Exists

Iron and Ivy didn’t start with a corporate boardroom or a traditional business plan. It started in a caregiving season, in a quiet home, with a tiny seed I had no idea how to grow—planted by a daughter who was learning, in real time, exactly what she was made of.

So yes, this blog is about loofahs. But it’s also about all of this. It’s about the parallel of growing something in the dirt while growing up yourself. It’s about the way caring for a living thing—whether it’s a plant or a person—teaches you more about patience, presence, and pure love than anything else ever could.

I want this space, The Guided Nest, to be completely honest. I want to talk about the learning curves, the quiet mornings, the grief, the growth, and the way tending a garden can quietly tend to your own soul right back when you feel like you have nothing left.

If you’re a caregiver right now, I see you. It is the hardest, most sacred work there is. Keep showing up.

If you’re grieving someone you love, I see you too.

And if you’re just here because you want to learn how to grow your own loofahs—welcome. I’ve got plenty of advice for that, too, and I’m so glad you found this corner. This is where it all started. Right here in the dirt.

A Little Night Light (Just Because)

Just when I thought this season couldn't bring any more beautiful surprises, my fiancé went out and surprised me by stringing lights all through the trellises for the night time. I didn’t ask him to do it; he just did it. After a long, heavy season of pouring so much energy into taking care of everyone else, walking out to see the garden glowing in the dark felt like a gentle reminder that I’m being taken care of, too.

— Dee