Why I Started Growing Food….

Aye, I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be growing food, but somewhere along the way, growing food became the best way for me to heal. It wasn’t just about food—it was about slowing down, reconnecting, and remembering the land. I started growing because I needed a deeper kind of healing, the kind that no pill or quick fix could provide.

Growing food taught me to listen—to the soil, to the weather, and to myself. It taught me that nourishment is more than what’s on your plate. It’s also in your memories, your roots, and the things passed down through generations.

One of my grandmothers had a grapevine in her backyard, and I often heard she’d make jelly, juice, and even wine from it. I wish I could’ve learned a thing or two from her. She didn’t show me how to grow, but she showed me how to create something special with what we had. Both of my grandmothers could cook like nobody else. One loved to bake cakes, and the other made pies that were the stuff of legends. I loved being around them when they baked—there was something magical in those moments, something I still carry with me today.

But my real inspiration to start growing food came from a neighbor—someone I call auntie. I’d ask her a million questions about growing food, amazed that we could grow what we buy in the store right in our own backyards. One neighbor even grew strawberries, and I couldn’t believe it. Another neighbor used to invite me to Sunday dinner with her family, and I’d sit and listen to her talk about the history of our neighborhood. She’s no longer with us, but the stories she shared still echo in my heart.

Now, I live just two doors down from another neighbor who grows food. We share seeds, plants, and food with one another, bartering in a way that feels old-fashioned, but it’s also a kind of resistance. It’s about community, about taking control of our food, and about carrying on traditions that go beyond just cooking.

Growing food in North St. Louis feels like resistance. It feels like legacy. This land has seen so much—displacement, divestment, redlining—but it still grows. I grow food here, on land once taken from Native people, in a city once known as Mound City. That history weighs heavy on me, but it also fuels me.

I grow for my ancestors who never got to rest. For my children, so they understand where their food comes from. For my community, because we all deserve access to fresh food, green spaces, and joy. Growing food is how I reconnect with who I am, how I stay grounded, and how I continue a tradition of resilience.