The Emotional Rollercoaster of the First Freeze
Texas weather has a way of keeping even the most seasoned gardener on her toes. One week we’re enjoying 80-degree sunshine, the next we’re bracing for our first freeze. It’s enough to make a gardener simultaneously laugh, cry, and sprint across the yard with pots in hand.
Our summer crop didn’t exactly live up to expectations this year, so I was really counting on the baby tomato plants we put in back in late August. To my surprise, they were actually doing well, with tiny green tomatoes starting to peek out. For a moment, I felt a little victorious—maybe even like a “real” gardener. But with a freeze looming, it was clear that celebration had to wait: it was time for the annual—and always emotional—rescue mission.
The greenhouse rescue actually started a few weeks ago. Any plant that wouldn’t survive a dip below 40 degrees got moved first: the Boston ferns, still lush and happy, and my prized Mexican lime, which would never make it through a single cold night. And today came the final—and arguably most dramatic—rescue: the baby tomatoes, which literally had to be dug up and potted before being moved to safety. A few odds and ends that I simply couldn’t bear to leave behind joined the effort as well. Each plant tucked safely away felt like a small victory—but the work was emotionally exhausting.
In years past, rescue missions meant chaos: moving plants into the house, rearranging furniture to make room for the lime tree, shuffling houseplants over to make space for outdoor plants. This year, we have a greenhouse, and while it makes logistics easier, the emotional toll remains. Deciding who to save and who to surrender to the first frost is, without exaggeration, the gardener’s most emotional task.
Looking back at the garden, guilt crept in. The okra is still producing, the jalapeños are thriving, and the herbs are ridiculously happy and full. Poor things. They have no idea what’s coming. By the time I finished, I was proud, exhausted, and a little weepy—all at once.
Gardening is a strange combination of joy, frustration, and heartbreak, and somehow, that’s exactly what makes it so addictive. The frost comes, some plants survive, some don’t, and yet each rescue feels like a tiny triumph. Even in the midst of guilt and frost warnings, I can’t help but feel grateful for every thriving pot, every baby tomato, and every stubborn herb that reminds me why I keep coming back to the garden—season after season.
Looking back at the garden, guilt crept in…
Gardening is a strange combination of joy, frustration, and heartbreak, and somehow, that’s exactly what makes it so addictive.
