Dirty Hands, Delayed Reinforcement

Last week, I finally got the vegetables planted.

I know, heroes don’t always wear capes. Sometimes they wear crusty garden gloves, smell like goat, and scream at aphids like tiny invaders in a backyard war zone.

To the outside world, planting vegetables might look like a wholesome, Instagram-worthy act of seasonal joy. But this wasn’t aesthetic. This was effortful, sweaty, painful on the joints, and honestly, hard to start. And that part matters.

Photo by Eddie Kopp on Unsplash

I have ADHD. Not the “oops I forgot my keys” sitcom kind (I got a Tile for that), but the kind where planning and initiating something as simple as “put things in dirt” can feel like solving a Rubik’s cube underwater, with your hands behind your back. I had everything ready, seeds, starts, homemade compost, daylight. But the actual doing? That required a battle with physical and emotional inertia no homesteading guidebook prepares you for.

So why plant now when I could panic later? Because I recognize the value of delayed reinforcement. Planting vegetables is basically the behavioral equivalent of writing a check you won’t cash for six weeks, maybe longer, depending on hailstorms, goat interference, and your own attention span. There’s no immediate reward. No buzzing notification. No dopamine cookie.

How does my brain handle it, as a card carrying member of the Delayed Reinforcement Resistance Club? Well, that lag in reinforcement is brutal. I thrive on feedback loops. Planting a tomato and not seeing it for two months? That’s not a loop, that’s a black hole. So if you’re anything like me, pushing through that delay means working against your own neurology and the convenience-industrial complex that wants you to just buy lettuce in a clamshell forever.

But wait, isn’t this a lot of work for one salad? Yup. Let’s add response effort to the mix. Planting a garden isn't one task, it’s about forty-two microtasks that all demand a decision, a tool, or a shovel. And if you're already running low on cognitive bandwidth, even just hauling yourself outside feels like a heroic act. This isn’t a time-saving shortcut. It’s a full-body, full-brain commitment. You’re choosing to do the slow, inefficient, deeply meaningful thing.

Why? Because somewhere under the weeds and executive dysfunction is a person who wants to connect to the land. Who wants to grow food in a world that tells us to just keep consuming.

So... am I doing this out of guilt? Nope. Guilt burns out fast. I planted because of values, which, behaviorally speaking, can act like motivating operations. They don’t reinforce behavior directly, but they make reinforcers more potent. I didn’t plant because someone told me to, or because a YouTube homesteader made me feel behind. I planted because food sovereignty matters to me. Because sticking seeds in the ground is an act of hope, and a little volunteering of resistance. Because I want to live like this land and my body both deserve better.

Values give context. They help override the internal tantrum that says, “Why bother?” And once I moved through that initial resistance, I got to feel the actual dirt, smell the compost, and feel the wind shift. That’s when the reinforcement shows up, not as produce yet, but as presence.

Is this a moral victory or am I just playing in the dirt? Both. This isn’t just about food. It’s about building contingency-shaped behavior from something that started as a verbal rule. I’ve told myself for years: “Growing your own food is the right thing to do.” That’s rule-governed behavior. But until I get my hands dirty, and until I contact the natural outcomes of the work, sore legs, sleeping better, noticing pollinators, seeing sprouts, it stays theoretical.

Over time, planting becomes less of a noble idea and more of a pattern. A behavior reinforced not by social praise or moral superiority, but by contact with nature, rhythm, and an internal sense of regulation.

So...what now? Now I wait. And water. And try not to anthropomorphize the kale too much. I planted late. I planted imperfectly. But I planted. And for someone who’s an executive dysfunction enthusiast with a deep desire to live more sustainably in a system that rewards neither patience nor autonomy, that’s a win.

Progress, like carrots, grows underground for a while before anyone sees it.

So until next time…with dirt under what’s left of my overchewed fingernails, Einstein (the goat) eyeballing the Swiss Chard, and the beginnings of a season I almost didn’t start, but did anyway.

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