I have no intention of glamorizing gardening—or anything else I ever talk about. Gardening is hard work. It’s a constant dance between effort and adaptation, and I use what I have, what I can get my hands on, and what I can afford. Some parts of my garden are still in progress, wild and unpolished, while other areas have found their rhythm and calm. You’ll see black tubs with holes cut out, soy sauce buckets reused for fermenting fertilizer, and makeshift setups that lean more practical than pretty—but they get the job done. For me, it’s also about recycling, reusing, and respecting what already exists. This space isn’t curated for perfection—it’s lived in, worked in, and deeply loved.
This garden grew out of memories: growing vegetables with my grandmother, learning flowers from my mother, and finding peace in soil when the world feels too loud. It’s a place where I nurture life, beauty, and food with my own two hands. You’ll find native plants mingling with heirloom vegetables, roses blooming beside medicinal herbs, and an ever-evolving balance of permaculture and personal experimentation. I also want to give credit to my husband, Chris, who shares in the care and design—especially the ever-growing rose collection that we’ve built together with love and patience.
There’s always something changing, something blooming, and something learning to grow again—just like me.
The garden is one of my oldest and truest places of connection—a space where memory, nature, and nourishment come together in bloom and root. It’s never perfect, and that’s exactly the point. Here you’ll find seasonal updates, snapshots of what’s growing, what’s fading, and what’s feeding us—visually and literally. From heirloom vegetables to pollinator havens, roses to reused soy sauce buckets, this space reflects my belief that beauty and function can (and should) coexist. Gardening, for me, is about reclaiming time, healing through rhythm, and working with what’s available. It’s slow art, in soil.
