I’ve never heard anyone talk about the Arizona Cactus Garden, but when I look up “must visit places at Stanford,” it’s one of the first that comes up.

That must mean something, right?

An assortment of cacti, big and small, arranged in a scenic route may not be the most interesting thing in the world, but this column is about discovering places that I wouldn’t otherwise visit. And the cactus garden definitely fits in this category.

The little voice in the back of my head has been reminding me to go for a whole two weeks now. And this is after my resolution to be more spontaneous. 

So why wait so long? The cactus gardens are just a five minute bike from CoDa. Even though I don’t study there anymore, I could easily make the time. The issue this time was that I wasn’t just waiting on myself to find the right time; I was waiting on others.

I told myself I could go on my own, but if I was being honest, I was starting to get bored of just looking at nature. I acknowledge there’s a time and place for introspection and peace. During the overstimulating start of the school year, for example, I wanted some time for myself. 

The first few weeks were a time of independence. Even if I was always surrounded by people, I tended to go places on my own. I hadn’t really known anyone that well, so each person felt like an acquaintance. They were people who could add a fun contribution to a group but weren’t drastically changing my experience one way or another. 

In part, this is natural. People go through shallow conversations before they get to deeper topics. But part of this is also a personal philosophy. I tend to put up a spiky exterior. I love to talk to and get to know people, but I only ever share the shallow parts of myself. It takes time before I feel comfortable enough to share my true inner thoughts, and even then I hesitate. With time, I let my guard down. I’ll share more information with my friends, and they will reciprocate. Once I reached this level of connection with others at Stanford, I stopped focusing on what activities I was doing and cared more about who I was doing them with.

And now that it’s the end of the school year, I believe it’s the time to maximize time spent with the people that make me so happy. To salvage every last conversation before the quiet summer ahead. I don’t need to be alone; I need to spend every second with others.

The problem with doing things together is that I must rely on others, and that has its cons. When I’m on my own, I’m free of all commitments and pressures — free to change plans down to the last second with no consequence. When I’m planning an event with others, though, I must plan a week in advance, account for a different schedule and be prepared for last minute cancellations. 

And when I’m trying to be spontaneous, this all feels a bit counterproductive.

I kept wanting to go to the cactus garden. And I kept telling myself, “Just do it. Get up and bike over.” But then I would wait. I would wait for someone to invite themself, dropping hints instead of making plans. I would wait for the perfect moment in the week, where the weather wasn’t too hot and I would have the most optimal experience.

That reasoning only held for so long. Because after two weeks with no progress, I started to get restless — tired of waiting around for perfection. So one Wednesday, while working on my Math 53 p-set in CoDa, I committed. I pulled up the directions on Google Maps and biked over.

I had my doubts, like always.

How do I even get there? It may be close, but I’m also directionally challenged.

What if there’s no bike parking? Would I just have to walk my bike around the garden? Or leave it and hope it doesn’t get stolen?

What if I don’t get back in time? I have class in an hour, and I can’t afford to be late. 

All my little concerns piled up, creating an overstimulating dread. But when I spent a minute to think realistically, shushing these silly worries, I realized that it couldn’t be that hard. And there’s nothing I could do about any of these issues, so I might as well leave now and get a head start. Worst case scenario, I’ll just walk there and back.

I biked past Cantor Arts Center, entering new territory. I followed a pedestrian trail forward and slightly to the left. And before I could even wonder where the next turn was, I realized I was already there.

That’s it? All this time beating myself up for not going, and it was literally a two minute bike. I felt a bit embarrassed that I was worried about such a short trip.

I hoped the garden would be much bigger than it looked as I biked by. But no, that was it. The entire garden was analogous to the size of Meyer Green. It was pretty but also underwhelming.

I took multiple rounds of the garden, taking angled paths that weaved in and out. I looked for the coolest looking cacti, ranging from the tall ones to small spherical ones shaped like watermelons.

As I circled the garden, I looked up and down, searching for something to focus on. But everything looked the same. Cacti. Trees. More cacti. What else was there to do?

After 20 minutes of looking the garden up and down to make the trip worthwhile, I hadn’t seen much of note. I hated to say it, but maybe there was a reason I had never heard anyone talk about this garden. With Cantor Arts Center just one road down, this may not be the best use of one’s time.

It was only as I was about to leave that I saw a beautiful pink flower blossoming from a cactus.

I had forgotten that such delicate flowers could bloom from prickly cacti. 

Now that I looked around, I realized that many of these cacti had budding flowers sprouting from different branches. I wondered if I came back in a few weeks whether these flowers would be fully developed, displaying their gorgeous petals for the world to see.

I left the cactus garden thinking less about the flowers themselves and more about patience. Like these cacti, I may look unassuming, maybe even a little prickly. But over time, I start to blossom, showing flowers you would never expect at first.

But I am only one cactus. Within the whole garden, there are so many more that have yet to blossom. Everything is a matter of time. 

We often underestimate the importance of time. It takes time for people to bloom — to reveal the softer, more vulnerable parts of themselves.

I’ve realized that I’m too quick to treat my first impression of someone as final. Not necessarily in a negative way, but as if the version of them I first meet is the complete version, unable to develop and grow. 

But in reality, it’s perfectly normal for people to seem a little prickly at first. Even a dorm friend or a sorority sister. That’s just how introductions work. Vulnerability is not something people owe you upon meeting; it’s revealed slowly, over time, through trust.

Like cacti, people bloom under the right conditions. You just have to stay long enough to watch it happen.