Mental Health Awareness Month: what my garden taught me about boundaries, perfection, and self-trust

Mental Health Awareness Month is often associated with bigger conversations about diagnosis, crisis, or wellbeing in a more clinical way.

I’ve also been thinking about how much of our mental health is reflected in the everyday: how we react under pressure, how we talk to ourselves when things don’t go to plan, and how easily we slip into old patterns without noticing.

For me, this became especially visible during a garden overhaul in my week off.

We can all use everyday life to practise our mental health skills: noticing what’s happening, getting curious about our reactions and self-talk, and making small adjustments as we go.

There’s often a part of us that wants things resolved completely, and faster than they naturally unfold. We want the “new growth” to show immediately. We want things to feel settled and look more perfect than life ever truly can be.

That’s certainly what came up for me recently, but ultimately, everything is always a work in progress. Striving for perfection is often a form of control when we feel vulnerable, but what’s more sustainable is ongoing maintenance: practising, noticing, adjusting, and returning to kindness towards ourselves and others.

The garden situation

I recently took a week off to redo my garden and became pretty hyper-focused; so much so that I didn’t book anything else in and even cancelled a couple of things already planned, including a run I was signed up for. That was disappointing, but I knew I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. I would have been mentally elsewhere, wishing I was back in the garden. I’d become a bit addicted!

I live in a new build, and they’re notoriously rubbish at creating even vaguely good gardens. Mine felt like they had just thrown strips of turf onto leftover rubble. The lawn was impossible and infuriating to mow, often ending with me succumbing to full-on lawnmower rage.

The original design I chose when I first moved in was also very much someone else’s vision, someone I had put on an unnecessary pedestal and I assumed knew better than me (yikes). I hadn’t really stopped to ask myself what I actually wanted.

The garden company I hired were busy at the time, (Covid, lots of new builds needing their gardens fixing) and I don’t think they fully listened to what I asked for: tall, wavy grasses and flowers, and specifically no daffodils. Yet there they were, being very yellow. Yep. I do not like daffodils!

Letting it all go (and the gravel idea)

At some point, I realised I needed the garden to become somewhere I could properly relax; something more in tune with me and my personality.

After some research, I decided to create a gravel garden. Mainly because that meant no more mowing rage, and no more scrappy, tufty, either-boggy-or-cracked lawn.

I covered the grass with cardboard and compost to let it break down and return to the earth, then left it for about six weeks while I thought about what I wanted to keep, where things would go, and what I wanted to buy.

Grasses, grasses, and more wavy grasses… and some wavy flowers.

The week off (and the emotional backdrop)

When my week off arrived, I had gravel and sand being delivered. I was absolutely mortified at the thought of giant dumpy bags sitting outside my house. I hate drawing attention to myself, even though realistically I know no one would have cared.

Around the same time, I’d had a hurtful and unnecessary comment on social media that briefly pulled me back into an old familiar story: I’m the bad one, I upset everyone, I get everything wrong.

It was also illuminating, in showing me how far I’ve come in not living inside that story day-to-day anymore, while also highlighting where stronger boundaries are still needed.

I had also watched a webinar by the “replacement child” professionals, including a client session that was deeply moving and activating in places.

All of this created a kind of internal pressure-cooker energy, which then found its outlet in the garden.

When it came to shovelling gravel and sand, I went into deep-focus machine mode, (dare I say beast mode) and worked about seven hours a day for ten days straight.

The work (and looking after myself inside it)

I really did try to look after myself while doing it. Yoga every morning, lunchtime, and evening to prevent injury. Lots of water and electrolytes. And a LOT of banana bread.

At 54, I think this was no small feat. I assumed I’d last a day or two before needing help, but I just kept going.

The weather was on my side, and everything seemed to align, including delivery timing changes that meant the gravel wasn’t sitting outside my house like a Belisha beacon.

I’d had to psyche myself up to go to the builders’ merchant and face a predominantly male environment, but everyone I dealt with was surprisingly kind and helpful rather than patronising or belittling, which challenged an old assumption.

At one point I said to my gardener friend , who was advising me, that it felt like I was giving birth to my garden and she was the midwife.

I honestly feel like I put my whole self into it.

Boundaries, instinct, and doing it my way

I had to do a lot of self-talk, reminding myself that I had my own back, literally, as I stopped every few wheelbarrow loads to stretch it out.

I didn’t want help, and I could feel myself getting defensive when people suggested I “should” put membrane down to stop weeds, or worried that I hadn’t thought to weigh the cardboard down.

But I didn’t want to use membrane. I’d already been told it wasn’t good for the soil, and I’m okay with pulling weeds when they appear.

And of course I’d weighed the cardboard down.

There was something important in noticing my reactions too: recognising what gets my back up and why, while also trying to remember that people are usually just attempting to be helpful.

No people-pleasing, except perhaps of myself.

I chose and placed plants according to sun and shade, and I loved creating something from the ground up.

I also like that the old lawn is still part of the garden, like an integration of its younger self.

Finishing it (and accepting help)

When it was finished, I felt proud, happy, and honestly a bit amazed at myself.

And I did finally accept help from someone who offered to pressure wash the patio for me, which was a very welcome bonus.

The ongoing bit (and the perfection trap)

Since then, I’ve noticed a tendency to want it to stay “finished” and “perfect”.

Some plants are sulking after being moved (possibly dying). Moles, voles, or mice have been tunnelling and shifting gravel and soil, and I find myself obsessively stamping it back down again, briefly convinced all my hard work is being undone (and my whole soul is being destroyed)… before remembering it’s just ongoing maintenance.

There will always be maintenance.

And that’s OK, sort of.

Part of me wants everything to settle immediately into its imagined version. I want the grasses and flowers to grow tall and wavy overnight and stay like that forever.

There’s impatience too, wanting things to fill out properly, wanting certainty, wanting visible progress.

It’s hard letting nature be nature. It’s a practice in tolerating uncertainty and “not yet”.

This feels very familiar in a therapeutic sense.

We might go to therapy and dig over old ground, integrate younger parts, and make sense of things, but that isn’t the end. There is ongoing maintenance: blips, shifts, uncertainty, and a life that doesn’t stay neat.

If we keep coming back to kindness, and trusting that we’ll do the best we can for ourselves in each moment, then perhaps that can be enough.

Sitting in it (literally)

I’m writing this in the garden, listening to birds and watching bees in the lavender, while mildly annoyed that a mole is currently creating spaghetti junction in the corner and some of the gravel is slowly disappearing underground again.

Closing reflection

This Mental Health Awareness Month, I’ve been reminded that awareness is most useful when it happens in real time: ordinary moments, everyday reactions, and the stories we instinctively fall back into.

We can always notice our responses, practise new ways of thinking, soften the grip of control and perfectionism, and return again and again to self-trust.

My garden now feels more like an extension of me: a place of sanctuary, grounding, and calm.

I’ll be kind to it, and to myself, and try not to let minor disruptions become major meltdowns.

No mountains out of molehills.

If this resonates, and you’d like support with boundaries, self-trust, or loosening the grip of perfectionism, you’re welcome to get in touch via my website contact form, email, or phone - whatever feels easiest for you.