The “Welcome Weeds” garden is a bit of an experiment—but also a return. Foraging is what we once did before we farmed. It’s what we forgot, and now remember again. This garden echoes a deeper rhythm.
Today, it’s doing what gardens do in September here in the Midwest: preparing for winter. Seeds form. Leaves dry. The plants go dormant. What repeats in the garden mirrors what repeats in the mind—and both need tending.
The sun is back after a morning rain. Beetles hover over stinging nettle blossoms. The deer have eaten some blooms, as they always do. One day I had a brilliant red amaranth; the next, it was gone. Nature gives and takes. Patterns emerge. We learn to live in relationship with what repeats.
But not every weed deserves space. Some are toxic or invasive. Left alone, they take over. They grow into something so dominant that the original garden is lost beneath them. That’s when I intervene.
I love checking for new seedlings—especially in spring. That early moment of discernment—what to keep, what to pull—is one of the most important. It’s the same in the mind. The same in the heart. Wild lettuce, stinging nettle, plantain: plants I once dismissed now offer healing. But I had to learn which ones carried nutrients, and which simply crowded everything else out.
And here’s what I’ve come to understand: welcoming weeds is also about welcoming adversity. The uninvited thing that shows up—challenging, disruptive, possibly nourishing. The twist in the plot. The discomfort that reveals something hidden. That, too, is worthy of curiosity. Sometimes adversity is a message. Sometimes, a mineral-rich truth.
As a therapist—and someone who lives with anxiety—I know what it means to let certain thoughts root too deeply. We all carry repeating beliefs, like mental vines, twisting around everything else:
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I’m not good enough.
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I’m not safe.
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What will they think?
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I can’t…
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I have to…
These inner seedlings float in, take hold, and bloom—often without our permission. So I’ve learned to walk through my mind the same way I walk through my garden: with attention, with choice.
Repeat sadness? Sure, but not endlessly.
Repeat joy? Yes, but not with a grasping hand.
Nourish the ego? Maybe, but not at the expense of soul.
In both spaces, I weed often. I notice what’s repeating, what’s helping, and what’s quietly taking over. I don’t aim for perfection. There will always be intrusions—sudden downpours, hungry deer, thoughts that sting. But I’ve learned that weeding is a practice, not a solution. It’s a rhythm, not a rule.
Some days, especially in times of depression or obsessive thinking, the mind feels like a garden gone wild. Thoughts repeat so fiercely they seem impossible to uproot. But even then, even in the most overgrown moment, I can still notice. I can still pause. And sometimes, that’s enough.
The act of weeding—inner or outer—is not about force. It’s about relationship. Observation. Choice. I don’t pull every weed. I don’t challenge every belief. But I do ask: Is this serving something? Is it nutrient-rich? Or is it choking out what I most want to grow?
Sometimes, the weeds of life are what feed us best. They bring depth. Texture. Unexpected medicine. But they require discernment—and repeated attention.
So I return again and again, to the garden, to the mind. I notice what repeats. I choose what to nourish. I pull what no longer belongs.
And in doing so, I remember: I am the one who tends this place. I decide what grows here.
