Dirt Therapy: The Surprising Healing Power of My Garden

Let’s be honest: I didn’t start gardening for my mental health. I started because I thought, “How hard could it be to grow a few vegetables?” Spoiler: Harder than expected. Also more emotionally revealing than I signed up for.

But somewhere between planting 17 squash and crying over cucumber sprouts, something clicked. Gardening became my therapy. Not in the Pinterest-aesthetic way — more like “this weed-pulling frenzy is keeping me from rage-texting someone” kind of way.

Is It Depression or Just Root Rot?

You ever look at a sad plant and go, “Wow… same”? That’s me and half my squash when I forget to water them one day and they go full drama queen. But tending to them — adjusting the soil, checking the leaves, whispering encouraging things like “Don’t you dare die on me” — somehow helps me tend to myself too.

Gloves On, World Off

I check on my garden at least twice a day. Morning coffee? Out with the plants. Lunch break? Just making sure nothing’s wilting emotionally, like me after a Zoom call. And if I have a rough call or someone breathes too loud in my inbox? I’m in the dirt within 3 minutes.

Weeding has become my new coping mechanism. Not a gentle hobby — an obsession. I’ll walk outside, feeling overwhelmed or irritable, and suddenly I’m 30 minutes deep pulling every invader from my soil like a tiny, furious deity of justice.

Compost: Where I Bury My Mistakes

Dropped a ball at work? Into the compost pile with that shame. Forgot to fertilize the peppers? Into the compost. Told my mom she was exhausting? (Okay, that one stays in my drafts, but you get the idea.) Gardening has given me a place to literally dump the stuff I can’t carry anymore.

Conversations I’ve Had With My Plants

Me: “You good?”

Squash: wilts for attention

Me: “Same.”

Me again, crouched over a pepper plant: “You’re doing great sweetie.”

They don’t talk back. They don’t judge. They just need sun, water, and my semi-neurotic devotion.

Water, Sunlight, and a Reason to Get Out of Bed

Gardening hasn’t fixed my brain. But it gives me a reason to step outside. To breathe deeper. To focus on something small and green instead of spiraling about everything I can’t control. It’s something real that I can nurture and watch grow — and sometimes that’s enough to keep going.

Hot Girl (Gardening) Summer

Yesterday, we were doing yardwork, and I had a moment. I was sweating — obviously — but I wasn’t suffering. A year ago, I would’ve melted into a bitter little puddle by noon. But now that I’ve lost a whole person’s worth of weight? The heat isn’t the villain it used to be.

I literally turned to Jen and said, “It’s way easier to work in the sun when you’re not dragging around an extra person.”

Don’t get me wrong — I still sweat like a greased-up tomato under pressure. But I’m not wheezing or rage-crying after 15 minutes of pulling weeds. That’s progress, baby. Hot Girl Gardening™ might not be on a t-shirt yet, but I’m living it — one sweaty squash plant at a time.

 Final Thoughts from the (Slightly Sunburnt) Trenches

So yeah. I’m still anxious. Still neurodivergent. Still navigating toxic family dynamics and a work life that occasionally sets my brain on fire. But I’ve got dirt under my nails, sun on my face, and an army of squash silently cheering me on.

And honestly? That’s more healing than any Zoom therapist I’ve ever ghosted.

By: Jess E