Preface
Let me be clear from the start: I have no intention of glamorizing gardening—or anything else I talk about. Gardening is hard work. It’s muddy, sweaty, and often done with whatever I have, can find, or can afford. Some areas of the garden are still rough, still evolving. Others are tidier, a little more refined from years of care. You’ll see black tubs with holes cut out, repurposed soy sauce buckets used to ferment fertilizer, and salvaged materials scattered between the plants. It might not be picture-perfect, but it works—and honestly, that’s the point. This space grows the way I do: imperfect, intentional, and always rooted in care.
Where It Began
Gardens don’t just grow—they transform. What started as a small corner of earth has, over the past decade, become something far greater than I could have imagined. The early years were quiet, exploratory. I planted what I knew, what brought me joy, and what I hoped would survive. Mistakes were made, lessons were learned, and slowly, something rooted deeper than just the plants.
A Rapid Transformation
In the last six years, change took on a faster rhythm. The garden didn’t just grow—it expanded with intention. Beds stretched outward. Borders were redrawn. Structures rose from the soil. I wasn’t just gardening anymore—I was shaping a living system. A place of healing, of nourishment, of purpose. It’s no longer a side project. It’s part of me.
None of this would have been possible without the support of my husband, Chris, who has helped build, shape, lift, dig, and dream alongside me. His effort and patience have grounded this space as much as the soil itself.
Feeding Ourselves
One of the biggest shifts was the expansion of our vegetable garden. Each season brings new crops and refined methods, all with one goal in mind: to grow enough that we don’t have to buy much—if any—produce. It’s a powerful feeling to feed yourself directly from the land. From seed to table, everything is intentional, cared for, and deeply appreciated. When I was a child growing up, my grandmother grew everything that we consumed, vegetable-wise. She's since passed 13 years ago now, at the time I'm writing this, and I'm the one who grows the produce now. I'm close to what she had, and still perfecting what I'm doing in the space.
Leaning into Permaculture
As the garden matured, so did the philosophy behind it. I’ve moved toward permaculture—designing with nature instead of fighting it. Everything has a role. Nothing is wasted. Compost goes back into the soil. Pollinators are protected. Perennials take root beside annual crops to reduce work and increase resilience. It’s not just a garden. It’s an ecosystem in motion. There is such an amazing feeling seeing the life that the garden harbors now. We are one of the few households that has created a functioning ecosystem here. Full of creatures that work in harmony with each other to bring everything to fruition.
A Garden of Healing
Beyond vegetables and blooms, I’ve devoted spaces to growing herbal and medicinal plants. Chamomile, calendula, angelica, rose, peony, lovage, and so many others. These aren’t just pretty plants. They heal. They soothe. They remember. They carry traditions that go back generations. Creating with them—whether in salves, teas, or infusions—feels like a full-circle return to what gardens have always been: places of care. My mother was a flower/ plant grower and an apothecarist in her homeland so a lot of my herbal and flower knowledge is from her.
Designing with Intention
Recently, I completed my certification in Landscape Design, with plans to pursue full licensure in the future. This education has shifted how I see space, flow, structure, and purpose within the garden. It combined my love of art and gardening. I now approach the layout like a living blueprint—where each curve, shadow, and form has meaning. It’s helped me refine the garden into something that not only grows well, but feels right to move through. This layer of design has brought clarity to the chaos and made room for beauty, balance, and accessibility.
Still Evolving
The garden keeps teaching me. It grows and shifts alongside me, reflecting change, struggle, beauty, and hope. There’s more I want to plant. More to learn. More to give. And that’s what makes it so special.
It’s always evolving.
