The Garden After the Storm

"The wound is the place where the light enters you." — Rumi

“I had… well, a kind of collapse. A mental collapse.”

The words came quietly, without shame — the kind of honesty that only arrives once the storm has passed. She sat on a bench in Kew Gardens, bathed in late-afternoon sun. Around her, the first crisp leaves of autumn brushed against the ground. Her hair, white as light, shimmered in the soft air, and her skin seemed to hold the glow of peace reclaimed.

She told me she had worked for decades in a high-pressure industry. “It became too much,” she said. “I took six months off work — I had to. I spent that time in my garden. It saved me.” Her eyes softened as she spoke of it: the soil beneath her nails, the rhythm of watering, pruning, planting. Each small act became a step back toward herself.

“When I returned to work,” she smiled, “I realised I needed something that wasn’t about performance. So I enrolled in an art-history degree — part-time, at my own pace. It gave me joy. It reminded me that I could still grow.” When I asked how burnout had felt, she listed the symptoms with quiet precision. “Tiredness first. Then irritation. My patience vanished. I forgot things, didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to go out or even answer the phone. Eventually, I couldn’t face work at all.”

She looked out across the gardens — still, reflective. “The hardest part was admitting I wasn’t coping. But once I did, I could finally begin to rest.”

There was nothing fragile about her now. Her voice carried the steadiness of someone who has learned not to chase perfection. “I used to overanalyse every decision,” she said. “Regret them. Wonder if I could’ve done better. Now, I just follow my gut. If it goes wrong, fine — move on. Don’t linger in what-ifs.”

Her laugh was light, like the rustle of leaves. In that moment, surrounded by the slow breath of the garden, she seemed wholly at ease with herself — a woman who had turned exhaustion into wisdom.

Before we parted, I asked about kindness. Her eyes brightened. “A cyclist once stopped outside our house, asked for water. He didn’t look well. We brought him into the garden, gave him tea, an aspirin, let him rest until he felt better. It cost nothing — but it felt good.”

She paused. “Kindness uplifts me,” she said. “It’s like planting something — you never know where it will bloom, but it always grows somewhere.”

As I walked away, the air carried that faint scent of turning leaves and late roses. The sun slipped lower, gilding the bench where she sat — calm, unhurried, radiant.

And I thought: she hadn’t just found peace in her garden.She had become the garden.