Let the growing season teach you what the first plan missed.

Plans are made in the abstract, on paper, in a mood of hopefulness about sun and time and energy. Then the actual season arrives with its shade in the corner you forgot, the bed that dries out by noon, the thing that thrived where you expected nothing. None of that is failure of planning; it is the only way certain information exists at all. A first plan is a question you put to the year.

Keep a rough note as things go about what struggled and what surprised you. Read it before you plan the next round. Let the ground correct you rather than arguing with it.