Where Healing Takes Root
- shaynewh91
- Apr 12
- 8 min read
There is a version of this post I originally intended to write—something structured, tidy, and rooted in the familiar language of health: massage, movement, nourishment. But when I sat down to begin, none of that came. Instead, all I could think about was my garden—what is waking up now, what is quietly thriving, and what we’re dreaming into life this year. And in a way, that feels more honest. Because right now, my understanding of health isn’t something abstract or clinical—it’s something I’m living, day by day, often with my hands in the soil.
So I’ll start there.
A Winter That Changed Everything
This past winter was one of the hardest seasons I’ve experienced in a long time. After a series of unusual and difficult-to-explain events, I began experiencing severe concussion-like symptoms—despite not having had any head injury in years. It was disorienting, frustrating, and at times, overwhelming. There were moments when even simple tasks felt like too much, when my body seemed to be speaking a language I didn’t yet understand.
I’m in a much better place now. Not because everything has magically resolved, but because I’ve learned how to listen. I’ve learned to respond when my body asks for rest, to pause when things feel off, and to respect limits that I might have once pushed through. Healing hasn’t been linear, and it hasn’t been fast—but it has been steady. And that steady progress has reshaped how I think about health in a very real, grounded way.
It has also shaped how I approached this growing season.
The Pull to Grow
At the beginning of the year, I told myself I would keep things simple. No starting seeds.
No ambitious garden plans. Just the basics—if anything at all. I wanted to leave space for rest, for recovery, for the unknown.
But there’s something about growing food that doesn’t always listen to logic.
Despite my best intentions to scale back, I felt an overwhelming pull to grow as much food as possible for our family. It wasn’t coming from a place of pressure—it felt deeper than that. Instinctual, almost. Like a quiet but persistent voice reminding me that tending to life, in whatever capacity I could manage, was part of my own healing.
So we adjusted the plan instead of abandoning it.
My partner and I decided to focus more on perennial food plants—things that, once established, would come back year after year with less effort. It felt like a compromise between my desire to grow and my need to conserve energy. A way to build something sustainable, not just for our garden, but for my health as well.
Our Micro Farm (That Thinks It’s 5 Acres)
We live on a 1/10th acre micro farm in a small Pacific Northwest town. And while that might sound modest, we talk about our space as if it’s expansive—because in our minds, it is. Our hearts live on five acres, even if our reality is something much smaller.
Everything in our life tends to reflect that same scale. Our home, originally built for railway workers and designed to be transported by railcar, is small but full of character.
Our town has a population of around 2,500 people. My partner works for himself, and I work alongside a very small team. There’s a rhythm to smallness that we’ve come to love—it feels intentional, connected, and just a little bit rebellious in a world that often pushes for more.
Our property itself is divided not by fences, but by personality.
There’s The Driveway, The Garage, and The Tool Shed—spaces that clearly belong to my partner, who is a hotrodder through and through. Engines, tools, and in-progress projects live there, constantly shifting and evolving.
Then there’s The House, The Porch, and The Greenhouse—the in-between spaces, where daily life unfolds and seasons begin to overlap.
And finally, there’s The Yard, which transforms throughout the year into numbered garden beds depending on what’s growing. Alongside it, we have The Outer Banks, a strip of garden between our fence and the sidewalk, and The Duck Hut, which is exactly what it sounds like.
It may not be large, but it is very, very full.
The Creatures Who Share This Space
No description of our micro farm would be complete without the animals who live here—each one adding their own energy, personality, and occasional chaos to the mix.
Our two barn cats, Slater McFuzzynutz and Raddimus, are equal parts working animals and professional loungers. If you’ve ever seen the movies Waiting… or Still Waiting…, you’ll understand the inspiration behind Raddimus’ name, while Slater’s name comes from his coloring and an inside joke. They spend their days napping in the sun, wandering through the neighborhood, and reminding us that rest is, in fact, a productive activity.
Then there are the ducks—the true rulers of the property.
Daphnie, Penelope, Rufio, Atreyu, Jackie Sparrow, and Jake From State Farm are all egg-laying hens, each with their own quirks and attitudes. They are endlessly entertaining, deeply opinionated, and completely convinced that everything in the yard exists for their benefit.
Our two older ducks are Indian Runner mixes (likely with Rouen or Cayuga), while the younger four are a blend of those genetics with Buff Orpington. The result is a beautiful range of earthy, neutral tones—soft browns, grays, and deep blacks. Jake From State Farm stands out in sleek black, while Jackie Sparrow wears a rich chocolate brown. The others fall somewhere in between, like moving pieces of the landscape itself.
And then there are the honeybees.
While they don’t live directly on our property, they are very much part of our ecosystem.
Their hive is located in the forested hills above our neighborhood, where they have access to about 30 acres of meadow and woodland. It’s an ideal environment for foraging, though honeybees are capable of traveling up to five miles in search of food when needed. Knowing they’re out there—working, gathering, pollinating—adds another layer of connection to everything we grow.
And then there is Little Brown Bird—still waiting for a proper name.
A fox sparrow who has claimed one of the arborvitae as its home base, this tiny resident has become one of the most consistent and uplifting presences in our yard. It spends its days hopping along the ground, foraging among the garden beds, weaving in and out of the spaces we’ve created. But its most impressive ritual happens perched on the rearview mirror of our 1967 Divco milk truck—currently in the process of being converted into a camper.
From that unlikely stage, it sings.
Loudly, persistently, and with what can only be described as full commitment. Whether it’s defending territory, admiring its own reflection, or simply announcing its presence to the world, Little Brown Bird shows up every day with a kind of fearless expression that feels both grounding and inspiring.
It isn’t alone in bringing life to the yard, either.
We have a steady rotation of feathered visitors—robins hopping confidently across the garden beds, turning over bits of earth in search of worms; Steller’s jays announcing their arrival long before you see them, bold and curious and just a little mischievous; and black-capped chickadees, small and quick, moving through the trees in soft, social bursts.
The chickadees, in particular, have been busy lately—flitting in and out of the birdhouses my stepson built last year, as if carefully inspecting the craftsmanship and considering their options. Watching them investigate, pause, and return again feels like a quiet kind of approval. A continuation of something we started together, now being folded into the rhythms of the land.
All of it—the sparrow’s song, the jays’ chatter, the chickadees’ curiosity—adds to a sense that this space is not just ours. It’s shared. Alive. In motion.
And maybe that’s part of the lesson, too.
To take up space. To use your voice. To build something, and then allow it to be lived in—by others, by seasons, by whatever finds its way to you.
The First Signs of Spring
After a long, heavy winter, the first signs of spring feel almost electric.
In The Outer Banks, the crocus were the first to emerge, pushing up through the cold ground as early as February. They were followed by daffodils and hyacinth, their colors cutting through the gray in a way that felt almost defiant. By early March, Pacific Northwest wildflowers began to make their appearance, quietly filling in the spaces between.
The past couple of weeks have brought substantial rainfall, which has transformed the garden seemingly overnight. What once looked dormant is now alive with movement.
Perennial crops are beginning to reestablish themselves—Egyptian walking onions stretching upward, tree collards holding steady, and asparagus sending up its first tender shoots. Rhubarb is unfolding in deep red and green, while blueberry bushes are dotted with promising buds.
Strawberries and raspberries are leafing out again, joined by herbs that return faithfully each year: lemon balm, mint, oregano, sage, rosemary, lavender, thyme, parsley, and cilantro. Some, like mint and lemon balm, require a bit of containment to keep them from taking over—but their resilience is part of their charm.
Even the so-called “weeds” are making their return—broadleaf plantain, dandelion, and yarrow—all of which I’ve come to see less as intruders and more as allies. Many of them have medicinal properties, and their presence often signals something important about the soil.
Planting for This Season (and the Next)
Alongside these perennials, I’ve begun planting both in the garden beds and in The Greenhouse.
This year’s seeds include sugar snap peas, broccoli, and kale—cool-weather crops that feel like a gentle re-entry into more active growing. Some have already begun to sprout, their tiny green leaves pushing upward with quiet determination. Others are still waiting beneath the soil, gathering the energy they need to emerge.
There’s a lesson in that, too.
Not everything happens at once. Not everything needs to.
Health, Reimagined
When I think about health now, it looks different than it did before this winter.
It’s less about doing everything “right” and more about paying attention. It’s about noticing when I have energy and using it in ways that feel meaningful—like planting seeds or harvesting herbs. It’s about recognizing when I don’t, and allowing myself to step back without guilt.
The garden has become both a mirror and a teacher in that process.
Some days, growth is visible and exciting. Other days, it’s happening beneath the surface, completely out of sight. Both are necessary. Both are valid.
And just like in the garden, healing in the body doesn’t always follow a straight line. It comes in waves, in cycles, in seasons.
Moving Forward, Gently
This year isn’t about maximizing output or proving anything. It’s about building something sustainable—physically, emotionally, and practically.
It’s about growing food for our family in a way that supports, rather than depletes, my health. It’s about creating systems that will continue to give back year after year. And it’s about staying connected—to the land, to the seasons, and to myself.
There will be more to share as the season unfolds—what thrives, what struggles, what surprises us. But for now, this feels like the right place to begin.
Not with perfection. Not with a plan.
But with a garden, waking up.
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