I Planted a Garden Because I Couldn’t Breathe

I never cared much for gardening.
Too messy. Too slow. Too hard.

I never had a gift, I understand there could be joy in it, but it never came to me

‘If in doubt, weed it out’ was my mantra…..

But grief does strange things to you.
Makes you crave dirt under your fingernails.
Makes you want to see something grow
when everything else has withered.

So I planted a garden.
Not because I wanted tomatoes or roses.
But because I couldn’t breathe.
Because my insides felt hollow and the world felt too sharp.
Because the only thing I could manage some days
was watering planter boxes
that might turn into life.

I planted because she would’ve loved it.
Kahlia would’ve squealed over the swan plants,
plotted out colours like a stylist with a mood board,
chatted to the herbs like they were friends.
She would’ve sat beside me on the deck chairs, tea or wine in hand
enjoying the sun and talking about her day.

So I played in the soil.
And cried.
And talked to her while I planted things
that didn’t ask anything from me except patience and water.

And slowly, so slowly,
something shifted.

There was beauty in the rhythm:
Soil. Seeds. Water. Sun.
The pure, ancient act of tending to something.
Of creating instead of collapsing.

I didn’t do it because I was “healing.”
I did it because I was suffocating,
and I needed to remember what breath felt like.

I needed to see something that wasn’t dying.
I needed a reason to go outside,
even if it was just to check on the strawberries.
I needed proof that the world still held softness.

My garden is messy.
It’s not Instagram-worthy.
But it’s mine.
It’s sacred.

It’s the place where I remember she existed,
and I exist,
and somehow, life does too.

And on the days when I still can’t breathe,
I go outside,
kneel in the dirt,
and ask the earth to hold what I can’t.