How to Kill a Tree and Still Call Yourself a Gardener
By Khaiah Thomson
Photo by Kym van der Plas
Crisp, sunburned leaves. A shrivelled stem gasping for water. Grey, sandy soil that repels moisture—much like my legs in summer. Toss in a grassless lawn for dramatic effect, and you’ve got a snapshot of my gardening track record.
I once thought it was a brilliant idea to plant baby fruit trees during a 40+ degree January heatwave, straight into what could technically be described as “dirt,” but more closely resembled beach sand. Yes, I was that person. Of the three trees I planted, one heroically died and was respectfully composted. The cause of death? Possibly the soil, the sun, the lack of water—or maybe the tree just took one look at its new home and decided, “Yeah, nah.”
The other two clung to life for five long years, managing to grow roughly 6.5 centimetres between them. We did, however, get a handful of apples and pears. By “we,” I mean the local birds and crickets, who feasted like royalty while I walked away with one sad little pear. Thanks, nature.
If I’m being honest, I’ve never really enjoyed gardening. It involves work—you know, that annoying stuff like weeding, watering, pruning, mulching... basically chores, but with dirt, bugs and the occasional surprise garden spider that sends me into a full interpretive dance. There have always been more appealing hobbies and weekend activities—like not gardening.
But something’s shifted recently. Maybe it’s the arrival of spring. Maybe it’s the vision of early summer picnics in a picturesque garden. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m hurtling toward my forties like a six-year-old chasing an ice cream truck. Whatever the reason, I now find myself oddly excited about digging in the dirt, tending to my plant babies, and—dare I say it—actually enjoying it.
Some mornings and early evenings, I wander through the garden with a cup of tea, inspecting new growth like a proud plant parent and hunting rogue pests like a suburban sleuth.
Have I become an expert gardener? Absolutely not. Just two weeks ago, I had a conversation with a very knowledgeable employee at Waldecks about the best plants for my sun-drenched garden bed. After an hour of careful deliberation, I completely ignored her advice and chose the plant with blue flowers. Why? Because they were blue. Flawless logic.
Despite my questionable decision-making, things are going surprisingly well, however I’m cautiously optimistic as summer creeps closer. I’m no green thumb, and I don’t have the knack for gardening. In fact, I’ve already killed one good tree this year, and there’s another looking a bit iffy but I’m doing a far better job than I used to. And you know what’s made the difference?
I’m putting in time and effort.
I’ve stopped planting things in lifeless moon dust, and started giving plants the food and nutrients they need to grow.
I water stuff now. Like, regularly.
I deal with pests before they form an army and overthrow the garden (most of the time).
I weed. A lot. Sooo much weeding.
Writing about something as mundane as gardening made me realise something else this weekend: gardening is not so different from self-care. Imagine if I put the same effort into tending myself?
Because let’s be real—self-care, which also requires time and effort, is usually the first thing to go. Between work, family, house stuff, and pretending that scrolling Instagram counts as “me time,” looking after my physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being ranks somewhere between “ironing underwear” and “training for a triathlon” on my priority list.
But just like a neglected garden, I begin to wither without proper care—albeit with fewer singed leaves and more emotional instability. I need to intentionally set aside time (and effort) for things like exercise, prayer and Bible reading, catching up with friends, sitting quietly with a cup of tea, and eating something more nourishing than my kids’ leftover crusts. Sometimes, the cleaning and washing can wait. Sometimes, instead of eating lunch at my desk while replying to emails, I need to step outside and soak up a little vitamin D.
There’s nothing worse when trying to revive a sad garden than that horrid grey, water-resistant soil—a literal dust bath. And do you know what causes soil to become hydrophobic? That’s right: a lack of moisture. Funny how the same applies to self-care. The longer I go without it, the harder it becomes to accept time for myself. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stood at the front door, torn between mopping the floors or going to the gym. (Mopping is exercise, right?)
But the more I water my garden—and myself—the easier it becomes. Self-care starts to feel less like indulgence with a side of guilt and more like routine.
Spreading mulch over a barren or weed-ridden garden won’t magically fix it. Sure, it looks better, but if the roots are starving and the weeds are still thriving in secret, nothing’s going to grow properly. In the same way, sprinkling a bit of intermittent fasting over your life won’t fix your health—especially if it’s just a free pass to eat whatever you want during your eating window. And let’s be honest, reading one Bible verse a day (on a pretty background) isn’t enough to nourish your soul or get to know Jesus. This is a dig at myself more than anything —a reminder that real self-care and growth take more than the occasional well-meaning effort. It has to be regular, intentional, and dare I say it... not just aesthetic.
Now, let’s talk about the most tedious part of gardening: weeding. When you chop off one head of the mythical Hydra, two grow back. That’s weeding in a nutshell—a never-ending battle. Especially couch grass, the enemy of all sanity. Couch grass is unbeatable, creeping underground and popping up just when you think you've won. Right now, about half my garden is looking lush and the other half is a chaotic tangle of couch grass.
My genius plan? Cover it with mulch. Now before you say aha! No, I’m absolutely not contradicting myself, this is not me covering or avoiding the problem—this is strategy. At least that is what I’m telling myself… I fully intend to zap those sneaky underground runners as soon as they pop through. In the meantime, the garden looks great and I can rest easy; that’s half the battle.
Truth be told, my life could use a bit of weeding, too. I eat too many sweets, doom scroll the socials too much, stay in bed when I should be out walking the dog, and sometimes drink wine like it’s going out of fashion. These are the things I know I need to pull out by the roots and I’m doing a spectacular job of dragging my feet. Thankfully, God is working on me and He is faithful, patient, and gracious.
I’m no gardening expert and I’m certainly no self-care guru, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I’m learning—slowly, a bit chaotically and with too many conversations about soil. But hey, if I can learn to nurture a half-dead backyard, maybe I can learn to nurture myself, too.
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Khaiah Thomson—Regular Contributor
West Australian Author Khaiah Thomson pens the Blackwood series. The first book Welcome to Blackwood won the Hawkeye Publishing Manuscript Development Prize in 2020. Khaiah first decided to write young adult fiction novels as a way to exercise her brain while on maternity leave. She wanted to create a magical escape for young readers, all the while gently weaving in themes of God’s love through the timeless battles of good versus evil, unconditional love and the power of redemption.
Khaiah lives in Perth with her husband and two sons. When she isn't working or in her home office writing, Khaiah can usually be found nose-deep in a book, gaming or at the nearest cafe, hovering close to the coffee machine. Khaiah’s Welcome to Blackwood series can be found in all good bookstores and Hawkeye Books.