Learning to Garden Again (When Your Body Says No)

I used to be the kind of person who could lose hours in the garden without even noticing. Pulling weeds, planting herbs, pruning fruit trees. It was a kind of moving meditation for me—quiet, focused, earthy. I’d come inside with scratched arms, dirt under my nails, and the kind of tired that feels like a job well done.

That was before my body changed.

A couple of years ago, I started experiencing chronic pain and sudden bouts of tachycardia (fast heart rate) that made me feel faint just walking from one room to another. Gardening—the thing that once calmed me—started feeling like a mountain I just couldn’t climb. For some reason, kneeling set me off and even crouching down to pick up a trowel would send my heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. I’d trim a few plants and have to lie down for an hour afterwards. The grief of it surprised me. I hadn’t expected to miss it so much.

It’s strange, the little things you lose when your body stops cooperating. Not just the big career goals or travel plans—but the small, grounding rituals, like turning over compost or spotting the first tomato of the season.

While my garden isn’t huge, I’m aware of the privilege of owning a garden and I felt so guilty when I let the garden go wild. The weeds moved in like they owned the place, and I watched from the kitchen window, feeling both detached and deeply disappointed.

But then something shifted. Not in my body so much—unfortunately, the tachycardia and pain are still with me somewhat—but in my approach. I stopped waiting for a day when I’d feel 100% better, and started thinking about what might be possible with the body I have now.

A friend suggested raised beds, so I wouldn’t have to bend so far. I bought a cheap folding stool so I could sit while I worked. I started giving myself permission to do five minutes instead of fifty, and to be satisfied with tiny wins: clearing one corner, planting two seedlings, sweeping a small patch of path.

And I discovered that the right tools make an enormous difference. I bought myself a modern tool in the battery-powered weed eater and it gave me the freedom to clean up neglected corners without pain and exhaustion (not to mention the hassle of gas or tangled cords).

That might sound like a small thing, but when your energy is limited and your body is unpredictable, small things are everything. Not having to pull-start a machine or untangle cords in the sun can be the difference between doing something and doing nothing. It can be the difference between feeling frustrated and feeling empowered.

Now, I garden differently. Slower. With more breaks. I listen to my body, I rest when I need to, and I try not to measure my success in square meters cleared, but in moments enjoyed. I’ve made peace with the fact that I won’t have a perfect garden—but I might have a joyful one.

There are still days when I can’t do anything. But on the days I can, I’m out there with my stool, my raised beds, and my battery-powered tools, doing a little bit at a time. That’s enough. Actually, that’s everything.

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