About Me and How We Got Here

 — A Tale of Dirt, Drama, and Discovering the Divine in the Mundane —

Hello there, dear internet traveler — a digital being nestled inside my screen, possibly sipping lukewarm coffee while trying to escape the slow-motion car crash that is modern life. First off, welcome. Second, take a breath — seriously. Inhale. Exhale. You’re still alive, and in today’s world, that is no small feat. That alone deserves a celebratory stretch, a snack, or at the very least, a smug little smile.

Now, who am I, you ask?

Well… my real name is on a “need to mulch” basis. You won’t find it here. Around these parts, I go by Big Mulch Command — BMC if you like (and if you know, you know 😉). I’m your host, your guide, your occasionally profane narrator through this little blog I’m planting into the internet soil.

Why am I here?

Why are YOU here?

These are big questions, but let’s start with mine.

This blog began as a desperate attempt to find myself — to rebuild something authentic after years of letting the world decide who I should be. Somewhere along the way, I stopped listening to my own instincts. I stopped dreaming. I let jobs, bills, stress, burnout, and societal expectations carve me into someone I barely recognized. And after a string of bad choices and life kicking me in the tender bits, I hit rock bottom so hard it bounced.

Cue the dramatic plot twist:

I ended up back at my childhood home — full circle, like a sitcom with darker undertones. It’s me, my husband, my mom, our tiny chihuahua overlord, a cat who gives zero damns, and an aggressively judgmental dog that might be possessed. I don’t want to point fingers, but if a horror movie breaks out, I’m watching that dog first. Just sayin’.

Now, my hometown is one of those “blink and you’ll miss it” kinds of places. Population: 6,000 if you count the raccoons. Coming back here from the chaos of a big city? That’s whiplash. I went from racing the clock every day to literally getting stuck behind a 1994 Buick doing 15 miles under the speed limit because “Ethel likes to take her time.”

The city? It had noise, speed, purpose. This place? It has… roundabouts. Two, back to back. And no one here knows how they work. People stop completely in them. Some drive the wrong direction. Others just panic and make a U-turn into the void. You’d think Satan himself designed them just to confuse everyone who hasn’t left town since 1983.

And don’t even get me started on the downtown situation. One lane loops the block. The second lane? It’s parking now. And there’s a bike lane that sees less action than a nun at a frat party. We paid for it, though! Woohoo, infrastructure!

But in this bizarre little hometown bubble, buried under all the awkwardness and asphalt nostalgia, something unexpected started growing — me. See, it’s easy to lose yourself in the noise of the world. But in the stillness? That’s where the real stuff grows.

And so, this blog was born.

I chose gardening because it mirrors what I’m going through. I’m not a master gardener — hell, I’ve barely kept a cactus alive. But nurturing something? That, I know. I spent over a decade as a Certified Nurse Aide, caring for others. And now? I’m redirecting some of that energy inward. Giving myself grace, time, and — you guessed it — mulch.

This isn’t just about planting seeds. It’s about growing roots. It’s about building something sustainable — something real. I want this space to be a no-BS zone where you can laugh, cry, learn, and maybe even rediscover your own roots alongside me. No filters. No Pinterest-perfect garden beds. Just dirt, sweat, a few curse words, and maybe a rogue tomato plant that thinks it’s a vine god.

So whether you’re here for plant tips, mental health realness, or just to witness the slow unraveling of a sarcastic ex-city dweller trying to grow both vegetables and a sense of inner peace — you’re in the right place.

Welcome to the chaos.

Welcome to the calm.

Welcome to Big Mulch Command.

Now let’s dig in.


Disclaimer Time 

Let’s get something clear right up front:

This isn’t advice. It’s not gospel. And it’s definitely not coming from a licensed anything.

I’m not a doctor, therapist, nutritionist, horticulturist, or any other kind of “-ist” with credentials hanging on a wall. What you’re reading here is my personal journey—honest, imperfect, and occasionally dusted with compost and a little chaos.

If you choose to take something from it and run with it—great. But if things go sideways, your tomato plant flakes on you, or you end up having an existential crisis in your garden shed… well, that’s on you. Adulting required.

So read, reflect, laugh, cry, grow things—or don’t. Just remember: this is not an advice column. It’s a digital garden diary, and you’re simply peeking over the fence.

At least say hello while you’re here.


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