It was a Monday morning in early August, and the weather had decided to double down on another week of heavy rain.

Somehow I managed to miss the entire forecast before going to bed, so this morning — before getting ready for work, before the sun was even up — I was outside moving dahlias under the cover of the gazebo and pulling the drain trays from beneath my biggest pots. Several were already holding an inch of water.

It has been that kind of summer.

The summer started hot right out the gate. June threw more ninety-degree days at us than normal and by the Fourth of July, all of New England was sweating under a heat dome that had pushed the heat index somewhere north of Hell. Then the pattern flipped, and the storms started rolling in.

Through it all the dahlias have kept growing, but they’ve struggled to get their footing. I have cut four blooms so far, and three of them I cut early before they were ruined by the rain. I also have about a half dozen buds in various stages of development.

But I’m tired.

It is at this point in the season when the excited, hopeful gardener I was in May is replaced by the tired weekend gardener of August. I have dragged hoses, hauled stakes, fought pests, inspected leaves, emptied saucers, and moved heavy pots back and forth way too many times. I have reached the “they’ll be fine” stage of gardening while secretly wondering if it’s true.

It’s not the dahlias themselves I am tired of. I am tired of the amount of work I have put in for what has felt, so far, like very little reward. Four weak blooms hardly seems worth it.

Our arrangement was simple enough. I provide the pots, soil, fertilizer, stakes, water, pest control, and emotional support. In return, the plants provide flowers.

The dahlias, however, do what they want.

Gardens don’t work according to a predictable system of effort in and reward out. Sometimes you do everything right and still get a disappointing season. Sometimes you neglect a plant for weeks, find it thriving, and take personal offense.

The hardest part is not waiting for the flowers. It is continuing to tend the plants when there is no sign of them. That is not patience, exactly.

In May, consistency is easy because hope does most of the work. Every new sprout is exciting. Every trip to the garden center feels justified. By August, the novelty has worn off. The plants are no longer tidy. The stakes are leaning. The leaves have spots. The insects have settled in and now have large extended families. The weather is playing spoiler just for the sport of it.

And yet, there’s still work to be done.

Consistency in the garden is not particularly sexy. It’s watering when the plants are dry and covering them when the rain is too heavy. It’s tying the same stem to the same stake for the third time. It’s checking the undersides of leaves even though you would prefer not to know what might be living there. It doesn’t require a perfect routine, an organized schedule, or a dramatic personal transformation. It just requires that you show up—not perfectly, not enthusiastically, and certainly not without complaining.

Tomorrow morning, after the rain has ended, I’ll walk the garden and see how the dahlias fared. I may find broken stems, and pots holding too much water. I may say several things that would not be fit to print in a wholesome gardening blog. Then I’ll stand up what can be stood up, tie back what can be saved, and drain what needs to be drained.

Not because I have suddenly become patient, or because I have discovered a fresh supply of gardening enthusiasm. I’ll do it because I’m still growing these flowers.

Maybe that’s what the middle of anything asks of us. We talk a lot about beginnings. They are exciting, filled with possibility, and typically not grounded in reality. We rarely talk about the middle, which is where the weather changes, the original plan stops working, and continuing becomes both a chore and a choice.

This summer has not gone according to plan. It has been hot, wet, frustrating, and exhausting. Four blooms for ninety days of effort doesn’t strike me as a favorable return.

But outside my door, there are dahlias with buds preparing to open. Some are spotted. Some have been chewed. Some are leaning at angles that suggest they have abandoned all respect for my staking strategy.

They are still growing.

And I’m still showing up. For right now, that’s enough.