Gardening is healing

I have been thinking about something lately. Why don’t we discuss gardening with the same consideration as we do medication for depression or anxiety? Rather than serving as a substitute, gardening could serve as a complementary activity.

What would it look like if part of healing included time in the soil? A part of that process could be the essence of healing: slowing down, tending to something living, watching it change, and being part of it.

There is something about gardening that teaches lessons in the gentlest and most honest way. Growth takes time. Things do not always go as planned. Occasionally, you lose an entire crop. And occasionally, when you think something is completely gone, it comes back.

Out in the garden is where a lot of life gets worked through. Stress softens somewhat. Grief has space to exist without needing to be fixed. There is no rush out there. Just small, steady reminders that life keeps moving forward.

Today felt like one of those days. Don’t we discuss gardening with the same consideration as we do

My grandmother’s roses are finally blooming this season. We brought them with us from Maryland to Georgia, and every time they come back to life, it feels like a piece of her is still right here with me. There is something really special about that kind of continuity, where memory and growth exist together.

In another part of the garden, my beans are sprouting in what used to be the old rabbit pen. Last year, that space felt worn out and, honestly, a little hopeless. Now it is one of the most fertile areas we have. It is a quiet reminder that even the places that feel depleted can be restored with time and care.

And then there are the pepper plants. After the last cold front, I was convinced they were gone. Completely done. But they are coming back. Slowly, but they are coming back. No big announcement, no dramatic moment. Just steady growth.

That feels like a lesson, too.

Healing does not always look like a big breakthrough. Sometimes it looks like small signs of life returning when you least expect them. Sometimes it looks like showing up again, even after being knocked down.

I do not think gardening is a cure-all. But I do think it is something we do not talk about enough. It is accessible, grounding, and reconnects us to something real in a world that can feel overwhelming.

Some days, a few quiet minutes in the garden can do more than we realize. It can remind us that growth is still possible, that we are still capable of starting again, and that even after hard seasons, life finds a way forward.

The Missing Piece in Trauma Recovery: What We Eat

There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately that I can’t quite shake.

Could we discuss for a moment why there is so little discussion at the national level about what we consume following trauma, particularly during recovery?

There is a lot of focus on therapy, medications, and coping strategies. And all of that matters. It truly does. But nutrition, what we are putting into our bodies every single day, often feels like an afterthought.

And yet, when the body is living in a constant state of stress, everything shifts. Sleep becomes inconsistent. Energy drops. Digestion changes. Even emotional responses feel different. The body is working overtime just to keep up, yet the conversation around food often stays at surface-level advice.

Living this life on the farm has changed my perspective in a very real way.

When you raise your meat, grow your own vegetables, and are hands-on through the entire process, food stops being something quick or convenient. It becomes something you understand. Something you respect. You start to realize that your consumption either benefits your body or exacerbates an already strained system.

And to be clear, raising your food is not the point. Not everyone can or should do that. What stands out most is the gap. The gap between what people are going through and the support they have. What would recovery look like if we gave more attention to that piece? Not in a complicated or overwhelming way, but in a way that feels practical, supportive, and doable in real life. Simple shifts. Real food. Gentle support for a body that has already been through so much. This topic is something I keep coming back to, both in my life and in my studies.

And I can’t help but wonder…