By Jessica Solomon
For most of my life, I lived by the belief that giving was the highest expression of love and connection. I was always fascinated by Princess Diana—her grace, her empathy, and especially her legacy of selfless service. One of her most cherished quotes stayed with me through the years:
“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.”
That idea shaped my worldview. I found joy in giving—whether it was time, energy, connections, or support. It felt natural. It felt good. But somewhere along the way, I began to feel depleted.
The truth is, givers often attract takers. And when you’re always pouring into others’ cups, it’s easy to forget to fill your own. I was a super-connector, a natural networker, proud of my generosity. But behind the pride was an imbalance—one I didn’t even see until I met someone who offered me a simple but transformative perspective:
“Fill your own cup so fully that it overflows to others.”
That small shift in thinking was profound. Giving from overflow—not depletion—suddenly felt like the sustainable and life-giving path I’d been missing.
Around this time, I started noticing a house I had passed many times before. Nestled in Santa Barbara, California, on Arroyo Avenue, was a space I had somehow overlooked: a lush, whimsical, and otherworldly place called the Garden of Giving. Drawn in by curiosity and the gentle pull of something sacred, I finally stopped and wandered in.
The garden was tended by a mystical woman—an artist, a spiritual conduit, and a self-proclaimed instrument of the universe. She radiated wisdom and warmth, unlike anyone I had ever met. In her presence, I felt invited not only to give—but to release, to reflect, and to receive.
I began bringing items from my home that I had long struggled to let go of—objects that carried stories, memories, and emotional weight. I left them in the garden as quiet offerings, and in return, I received more than I could have imagined: moments of magic, conversations that sparked healing, and a gentle initiation into the art of receiving.
It was in that garden—surrounded by shared treasures and blooming generosity—that I began a new journey. The craving for acceptance softened. The practice of receiving, once foreign and uncomfortable, became a spiritual doorway. And through it, I discovered not only a deeper balance, but a surprising sense of peace.
If you ever find yourself in Santa Barbara, take a detour down Arroyo Avenue. Stop by the Garden of Giving. Open your heart. Leave something behind. Receive what’s meant for you. And step into the quiet magic of learning how to be filled.
