What a shovel taught me about surviving loss
I didn’t set out to build a grief garden – bit it grew anyway. When people think about healing from trauma—especially violent trauma—they often picture something clinical. A hospital. A therapy office. Maybe a stack of books or a prescription pad.
But for me, healing didn’t begin under fluorescent lights. It began with damp soil and uncertain hands.
Years ago, I bought a house others had passed over more than 250 times. It was easy to see why. The backyard was overgrown, sloped, and weedy—nothing special whatsoever. But I saw potential. Not just in the land, but in myself. And I felt pulled into the forest that surrounded this property. I had been loaded with tension and needed a way to discharge it safely. My hope was sleep would then return. Would working the land answer my need for calm?
Ever since my husband had been murdered years earlier in the inner core of Detroit, I’d found myself unable to tolerate crowds, sirens and feeling “boxed in.” I longed for peace and space.
And grief doesn’t gently knock. It breaks in, rips out the floorboards, and leaves silence where your life used to be.
I couldn’t fix the past, but I could dig.
I could envision.
I could choose what would grow next.
So I picked up a shovel and my resolve. I was determined to create a place of serenity – an oasis. And to establish a sense of home.
At first, it didn’t feel like healing. It felt like sweating through unending heartbreak. Like arguing with ivy. Bushes had to be pulled out to make way for a path. Trees needed trimming to return them to health. The soil needed amending to support the demands ahead. All the while I kept a vision in my head of what it could become with time.
And slowly, as seasons passed, the land changed. And so did I.
In time I was rewarded. Where weeds once choked the ground, ferns gracefully unfurled. Where there was a haphazard array of mismatched plants, flowers blossomed. Soft ground cover created a green welcome mat and the layered textures beckoned the viewer to come closer. Birds took sanctuary year-round and butterflies dotted the garden on warm days. It felt abuzz with life and promise.
Where trauma once dictated my days, I now find refuge—leaf by leaf, root by root, rain cloud by rain cloud.
This isn’t just landscaping. It’s a living metaphor.
- The rocks I couldn’t move? Boundaries I learned to accept.
- The plants that died? People I had to release.
- The things that flourished? A steadfast reminder that self-care can bring renewal.
Science backs this up:
Spending time in nature reduces cortisol, lowers blood pressure, and can ease symptoms of grief and depression. Being surrounded by nature helps regulate emotions and can even improve attention span and memory. The physical investment of gardening is known to restore sleep, and boost the immune system. Private gardens, especially, offer a sense of control, creativity, and hope—the things trauma often steals.
We don’t always need words to heal.
Sometimes we just need somewhere safe to grow and think and rest.
My garden became my sanctuary, my private corner of the world. I later established a summer sleeping tent to rest my head on sultry summer nights. I knocked out a window and had a covered porch constructed to allow me to go straight from the house to the garden.
And now, years later, someone shared a photo of this garden. It made the cover of a magazine.
What the world sees is design.
But what I see is survival.
To anyone healing from loss, I offer this:
Don’t rush.
Don’t compare.
Let the roots take hold.
Picture a quiet place to land.
Invite nature back into your life.
And when in doubt, plant something.
You may be building a sanctuary before you even realize it.
