There is a scene from the K-drama Heaven’s Garden that has stayed with me ever since I watched it during the COVID years.

The grandfather is in the garden, carefully pruning the branches of a cherry tree. His granddaughter watches him and asks why he is cutting away perfectly healthy-looking branches.

He smiles and says:

“In life, we keep gathering many relationships. As time passes, we don’t realize that some of them become unnecessary. They occupy space, consume energy, and take away nourishment from the parts that truly matter. If we don’t prune them in time, the tree suffers.”

At the time, I thought it was a beautiful gardening lesson.

Years later, it feels more like a lesson about life.

It had been about a week since my surgery.

My phone kept ringing.

Missed calls.

Messages.

More missed calls.

More messages.

I never gathered the courage to open most of them.

Because I already knew what they contained.

Concern.

Questions about my well-being.

People wondering why I hadn’t informed them.

People expressing surprise that they were hearing about it so late.

And yet, I couldn’t help wondering:

If I had informed them earlier, what would have changed?

Would they have shown up?

Would they have checked in regularly?

Would they have lightened even a fraction of the burden?

Or would the conversation have ended exactly where it began—with words?

The same people who suddenly appeared during a crisis were often absent during ordinary days.

Days when no surgery was involved.

Days when no dramatic event demanded attention.

Days when a simple “How are you?” would have been enough.

Over time, I started noticing a pattern.

Many of these relationships existed only under specific conditions.
Their concern began when they needed advice.
When they needed help.
When they needed access to my time, resources, or support.

And once that need was fulfilled, the connection quietly disappeared until the next requirement arrived.

What exactly were these relationships?

Friendships?

Connections?

Or simply names stored in a contact list?


After reading Think Like a Monk, I became intentional about removing noise from my life.

Some people drifted away naturally.

A few relationships had become so toxic that I eventually confronted them directly and said my goodbyes with as much grace as I could manage.

Not everyone appreciated that.

People rarely enjoy being told that they no longer belong in your garden.

But sometimes pruning looks cruel from the perspective of the branch being cut.


When I observe others, I notice something interesting.

Many people seem to maintain a small circle.

A handful of meaningful relationships.
No more than they can nurture.
No less than they need.

There is a quiet wisdom in those boundaries.

Meanwhile, I seem to possess a very different talent.

I cultivate gardens of weeds.

I am exceptionally good at collecting connections.
Starting conversations.
Offering help.
Keeping doors open.
Making room for people.
And before I realize it, the garden is crowded.

Not with flowers.
Not with fruit-bearing trees.
But with weeds.
Relationships that consume energy without giving life.
Connections that occupy space without adding meaning.

Roots that spread everywhere while contributing nothing to growth.


The difficult part is that weeds rarely look like weeds in the beginning.
They arrive disguised as possibilities.
Potential friendships.
Future collaborations.
Good intentions.
Shared interests.

By the time you recognize them, they have already taken root.


I haven’t completely figured out what to do about it yet.

I am still learning the difference between kindness and overextension.

Between connection and obligation.

Between being available and being accessible to everyone.

Perhaps one day I will learn to prune as fearlessly as that old gardener in Heaven’s Garden.

Perhaps one day my garden will contain fewer weeds and more things worth nurturing.

Until then, the phone keeps ringing.
The messages keep arriving.
And many of them remain unread—
waiting forever for the blue ticks that never come.