For years, when I lived in London, I didn’t have an outdoor space of my own. There were shared grounds, neatly maintained by landscapers — always tidy, always clipped — but never mine.
That said, I’ve always needed plants around me.
My London flat was absolutely full of them. Every windowsill, shelf and sunny corner hosted something green and growing. Trailing vines over the mezzanine, structural leafy plants wherever the fit, tiny pots lined up bookshelves. Tending to them was my ritual — watering days, wiping leaves, rotating pots to chase the light. Even without a garden, I built my own indoor jungle. That part of me hasn’t changed at all.
What I didn’t realise then was that one day I’d have both.
When I moved north, I swapped city pavements for space — and bought a Victorian property that hadn’t been touched stylistically since what felt like the 80s. My first summer was devoted entirely to the inside renovation. I poured myself into transforming it into my sanctuary with a theme I like to call ‘Mid-century Witch’ — I freshened up the paint on some of the textured 70’s wallpaper and kept the amazing 70’s built-in wardrobes but everything else was completely stripped and replaced. Once the renovation was done, it was filled with all of my 70’s furniture, plants, crystals and candles. It was creative, exhausting, and completely immersive.
By the second summer, my focus shifted outdoors.
The “yarden” (yard + garden) I moved into was honestly, a concrete eyesore. Uneven slabs, a crumbling wall, very little life. It felt overwhelming at first — another major project to tackle. I brought professionals in to level the ground and secure the falling wall (some jobs are better left to experts), but once the bones were sorted, I pulled on my overalls and picked up a paintbrush.
Freshening the walls myself was unexpectedly therapeutic. Repetitive strokes. Visible progress. A sense of reclaiming.
For ease, I opted for astroturf as a base. After a year of renovation chaos, I wanted something low-maintenance underfoot.
Then I got carried away with pots. Herbs for cooking. Shrubs for structure. Flowers for colour and softness. I added fairy-lights, wind chimes, fairy and toadstool ornaments and before long, the concrete yard had transformed into a textured little haven. And just like that, I’d extended my love of indoor plants into the open air.
I was surprised by how much I loved going out to potter — weeding, tidying, deadheading, watering in the early morning light. Gardening slows you down in a way indoor plant care only hints at. It connects you to seasons rather than just schedules.
By the end of last summer I just had time to squeeze in a couple of vegan BBQs, sitting among the pots as the light softened before Autumn arrived. It felt deeply satisfying to be in a space I’d shaped with my own hands. The yarden wasn’t huge or traditionally “garden-like,” but it was alive.
Once the temperature dipped, I assumed that connection would fade. But even in winter, there was something grounding about it. The holly berries shone against grey skies — small, defiant pops of colour. Structure remained even when blooms disappeared.
Now, as spring edges closer, I’m noticing the quiet return of growth. The bulbs I planted last year are pushing through the soil in their pots. Tiny green shoots breaking the surface. My aquilegia is already showing leaves — determined, resilient.
Inside, my home is still filled with plants, just as it was in London. But now, alongside the indoor jungle, I have the yarden too. I have somewhere to step outside barefoot. Somewhere to notice the shift in air temperature. Somewhere to mark time by what’s emerging from the soil.
Gardening for wellbeing isn’t about perfection or scale. It’s about participation. It’s about nurturing something and being nurtured in return. It’s about having your hands in the soil and your mind momentarily quiet.
For someone who once only had windowsill gardens in London, having both an indoor sanctuary and an outdoor haven feels quietly extraordinary.
Where I once couldn’t walk past a plant shop without adding “just one more” to my indoor collection, I now seem to have developed the same weakness for garden centres. Winter gave my bank balance (and the yarden) a brief pause, but with the first hint of spring I was back at it. It’s only February and I’ve already added a new shrub and a hellebore and a luna hare ornament to the mix — because apparently restraint doesn’t apply to plants. I can already see how this is going to go: by midsummer I’ll be rearranging pots like a game of botanical Tetris, insisting there’s no such thing as too many plants…
This spring, I’m not just watching things grow.
I’m growing with them.
Stardust Holistics 