Interior Designer, Seasoned Artist, Beginner Garderner

Starting a garden can feel overwhelming for beginners. I have been developing my garden for 11 years and I STILL consider myself a beginner. Here's my journey!

How My Yard became my Garden

When I first looked out at the yard 11 years ago, all I could see were dangers, broken glass, rodents and pests, all the things that made it feel off-limits. My children were 2 and 4 at the time. They could not go outside barefoot, or play in the sandbox, without finding unexpected dangers. So, I began reshaping it. One safe corner at a time. Pulling out hazards, adding structure, choosing textures that felt welcoming instead of risky. Little by little, the space shifted from somewhere we avoided to a place we could all breathe.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped just being a project about fixing problems and turned into an ongoing invitation. Now, when friends pull up a chair or kids kick off their shoes, it feels like the space is saying, "come on in!"

And somehow, this little patch of once tricky (still tricky at times for different reasons) ground taught me that tending a space is really about tending the life inside it.

Open and inviting, yet space for solitude

As my garden began to take shape, I realized I wasn't just building a backdrop for plants, I was creating experiences. I wanted a place where laughter could echo across the yard one moment, and quiet reflection could live comfortable just a few steps away. It became important to me that this space could hold both energy and calm, togetherness and stillness. At the center of it all is where the joy gathers. The trampoline has seen kids and grownups alike bounce until they're breathless with laughter. And as evening falls, the firepit naturally calls up in. Chairs pulled close, stories stretching longer than planned. That part of the garden feels like a heartbeat, warm and welcoming. However, not every moment asks for a crowd. Just beyond that buzz, quieter corners wait for those slower rhythms. A swing that seems to say, "sit and stay awhile." Lounge chairs angled toward the sun, small spots perfect for a slow sip of wine or coffee. And behind the shed, that little retreat where silence feels welcome. I've come to believe that a well-loved space makes room for both connection and pause. That balance feels like the truest kind of welcome. And this garden, more than anything, has learned to do both.

Hidden Behind the Shed

Behind the shed, there was this forgotten heap. Splintered wood, twig tangles, the kind of spot you avert your eyes from. But something about that mess whispered possibility. One afternoon, I rolled up my sleeves, and the heap became a blank page. I swept, hauled, cleared until there was room for a little secret to breathe. A chalkboard went up, paint found the fence, and laughter moved in where clutter used to be. Years later, that same corner feels like a small sanctuary. A loveseat for two, or a quite nook for one, a place where a mug warms your hands and a book feels right at home. It still carries those kid echoes, but now it also knows how to hold a soft silence.

Picking the right plants!!

Picking the right plants have almost felt like matchmaking, finding plants that suited an abundance of shade, some that are in direct sunlight all day long, but also fit the story of the space. After all the initial heavy lifting, choosing what would grow felt like a real conversation with the garden itself. And it is one I continue to have daily. I've killed many plants along the way, and I continue to navigate what does well and where, sometimes transplanting plants 2-3 times before getting it right... This is where I consider myself a beginner! I just do not know enough about each plant, and it's a constant struggle. I asked myself things like "What thrives here without too much fuss? What brings me joy when I see it?" Some choices were practical. hardy perennials, herbs that could take a little neglect. Others were just for delight. Flowers that made me smile, textures that caught the light. I guess it hasn't been about getting it right. It's been about listening, noticing. Letting the space tell me what it wants... Does this mean I'm less of a beginner than I thought?

Follow the Rules

I used to think following the rules meant strict garden plans and perfect row, but really it turned out to be listening, to rhythm, to season, to my own energy. The rules also bent to let creativity in. I found that art didn't interrupt the garden's rhythm. It joined it. A brush stroke on the fence, a chalk line from small hands, a goddess protecting all who enter, even a splash of color.

Alongside the brushstrokes and chalk lines, tiny surprises found their way in. Hidden fairies tucked under leaves, little gnomes keeping watch. Small bits of make-believe that invite kids, and honestly adults too, to look closer and smile.

Each piece feels like a heartbeat stitched into the space. It reminds me the garden isn't just grown, it's expressed. And somehow those little creative marks, keep the space human. In the end, following the rules meant honoring both structure and spontaneity, where nature and art meet in the same breath.