Dirt Therapy & Mental Clarity (Heavy on the Dirt, Light on the Clarity)

Okay. So it finally happened.

The last cold snap has yeeted itself into the past, the wind has stopped shrieking like it found out it wasn’t the main character, and now? The birds are out here putting on a full Disney musical—harmonizing like they’re auditioning for The Voice: Backyard Edition. Nature is in heat, or harmony, or whatever happens when everything suddenly decides to wake the hell up and start doing things again.

And watching all of it unfold, I had a thought:

“Damn. Same.”

Because we, too, go dormant sometimes. But our version isn’t as cute as a tulip bulb in a nap. Nah. Our dormancy shows up in the form of depression, anxiety, grief, burnout, or that weird void-feeling where you stare at a spoon for ten minutes wondering if it’s judging you. It’s not glamorous—but it’s real. And it’s part of the rhythm.

The soil rests. Trees rest. Bears literally sleep for months without paying rent or texting anyone back. So maybe we need to stop acting like being tired or sad means we’re broken. Maybe we’re just seasonal.

So, as I prep the garden this year, I’m taking it personally. Like “might cry while digging” personal. Because just as the garden needs clearing—old debris yanked out, soil turned over, nutrients added—I need to do the same with my own internal mess. You ever try to grow something in chaos? Doesn’t work. Ask my 2022 houseplants.

Let’s talk prep.

You don’t need a huge space or a cute little apron with embroidered carrots (but if you have one, send pics). A pot and a handful of seeds or bulbs (if your bougie like my husband) is all you need to follow along. My space is bigger, but honestly, size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it. (Insert wink and deeply personal metaphor here.)

Step one? Soil test.

Now, this part made me feel like I was doing some kind of CSI: Garden Unit—scooping dirt into a test kit like, “Enhance.” Turns out, my soil is alkaline, which is fancy speak for “a little too basic.” Same, girl. Same. Most plants prefer a pH of 6.0–7.0, slightly acidic. Mine is more like 8.5, sipping iced coffee and talking about essential oils.

High pH can lock up nutrients, which basically means your soil’s got the goods but refuses to share. Real passive-aggressive. So to fix that? Pine needles, baby. Luckily, I’ve got a tree next to my house dropping them like a horny 45 year old man at a strip club raining down cash. Rainwater also helps—but I live in the desert, so rain is mostly a rumor. These plants are gonna have to adapt or die. It’s giving “tough love gardening.”

Now let’s talk nitrogen—the stuff that makes plants grow big and leafy. Low nitrogen means pale, sad leaves and stunted growth. Think plant depression with a side of anemia. Fixes? Coffee grounds, alfalfa meal, soybean meal… or if you’re like me and prefer shortcuts, Miracle-Gro Shake ‘n Feed. One tablespoon per cubic foot. Precision optional.

Phosphorus? Decent here. But if yours sucks, add bone meal, rock phosphate, or bat guano—but DO NOT smoke the guano. I don’t care what that hippie in the comments section says. You will see God and he will be a raccoon.

Potassium? Also okay here. If yours is low, toss in some wood ash (sparingly), banana peels, kelp meal, or greensand. But again—go easy unless you want to summon the ghost of a tomato plant that refuses to thrive but won’t die either. You know the type.

Now, here’s where we zoom out and make it deep.

Just like your soil needs amendments—compost, nutrients, organic matter—you need rest, reflection, and better inner dialogue. What are you feeding your soul right now? Because news flash: the things you tell yourself matter. Keep feeding your mind phrases like, “I’m a mess, I can’t do this, I’m failing,” and guess what? That’s the emotional equivalent of watering your plants with diet soda.

Try telling yourself this instead:

“I am capable.”

“I am resilient.”

“I am going to get my shit together. Eventually. After snacks.”

You’d be amazed what grows from that.

And while we’re testing soil, what if we tested ourselves? What are you low on? Joy? Connection? Purpose? Lately, I’ve felt like someone hollowed me out and left behind a human piñata—empty, fragile, and one firm poke away from collapse. I let people and chaos fill the void instead of being intentional. And spoiler: they did not fill it with good stuff. They filled it with junk. Regret. Expired dreams. Emotional leftovers.

But here’s the part that matters: I get to choose what fills me now. I’m the one holding the trowel. (Or the emotional ladle, if you prefer soup metaphors.)

Now, back to the garden.

The space I’m working with is trashed. Weeds, dead plants, junk, mysterious items that might be cursed—I don’t know. And honestly, my brain’s been right there with it. So as I pull out weeds and clear debris, I’m doing the same inside myself.

Removing old roots, pulling out what doesn’t belong anymore. Because here’s the truth: letting go isn’t wasteful. It’s transformative. That emotional clutter? That toxic friend who only calls to trauma-dump? That voice in your head telling you to settle? Compost it, babe. It’s fertilizer for your future.

Clean your garden. Clean your life. Ask yourself:

Does this serve me?

Does it help me grow?

Would I let it live in my house rent-free and eat all my snacks?

If the answer’s no? Pull. That. Weed.

Make space for the good stuff. For new thoughts. New friends. Wild ideas. Quiet mornings. Peace. Purpose. Weird hobbies. Loud laughter. Messy joy. The big, bold version of you that’s been buried under old roots and expired dreams.

It’s time to grow.

And remember: we don’t bloom overnight. But we do bloom.

One weed at a time. 🌱

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.