I became a ‘wild gardener’ – and it changed my life

Author Victoria Bennett explains how letting her plants grow freely helped her accept and let go of the things that she could not control

Maybe, just maybe, the weeds are whispering the answer (Getty Images/iStockphoto)

We are seeing a celebrity moment for weeds and wild gardening, but why now? There are obvious benefits — for one, they provide food and shelter to a wide variety of insects and wildlife, thus encouraging a more sustainable and biodiverse ecosystem.

Yet, there is still a kick-back against this movement towards re-wilding the domestic space. The language around gardening is still rooted in domination; the garden a place of mastery, and nature is something to be contained. For many, the wild garden will always be a symptom of losing control. 

Which of course, it is. But sometimes, losing control is exactly what we need to do.

Right now, things feel pretty uncertain. The capitalist, patriarchal monolith is showing its cracks. Our expectations of safety have been undermined by a global pandemic. Many of us have experienced sudden loss – of a loved one, a job, a way of life, health – rendering our lives almost unrecognisable.

Even the weather, the great British stalwart of uncomfortable social conversation, is spinning out of control. Hail in summer, drought in spring, blistering cold, devastating fires, torrential rains. Every day brings a new flavour of chaos. We hold on. We try to keep up. Sometimes, we fall.

Two months before my son was due to be born, my eldest sister died in a canoeing accident. She was 47. In that moment, the future I’d thought was fixed disappeared and with it, my belief that I had control over anything. It wasn’t the last time our lives would be smashed apart. Over the next few years, there would be more unexpected deaths in my family and, when my son was two years old, undiagnosed type 1 diabetes was missed by doctors and resulted in him fighting for his life.

Instead of the rosy early years of motherhood I’d imagined, I was struggling with complex grief, the demands of being a carer for both my medically dependent son and my elderly parents, and financial difficulties due to a cost of living crisis. When my husband and I were offered a house on a new-build social housing estate in rural Cumbria, we took it. We needed somewhere safe to rebuild.

Being a new estate, the only thing growing in our back garden was a thinly sown lawn of grass, growing over the remnants of a former industrial site. It was here that my four-year-old son and I decided to grow a magical garden.

Without money to buy plants, we made use of what we could. We rescued the plants that were pushing up between the rubble: oxeye daisy, great mullein, nettle, clover, pineapple weed. We re-homed plants that others dug out, and gathered seeds for free from the wildflowers that grew on the roadsides and in the fields.

To my son, there was no difference between a nettle and the most exotic Chelsea rose. Both held beauty and through him, I learnt to re-see the world. Together, we learnt about each plant – what they could bring to the garden, and to our lives as well. Each one, from the sow thistle to the horsetail, could heal. Alongside these, we created wetlands, micro-meadows, mini-ponds, vegetable beds, fruit patches, hedgerows, and shady woodland corners for other creatures to call their home.

As neighbours mowed their lawns, or paved their patios, we let our garden grow wild, tended by a guiding touch. Bindweed tangled through branches, calendula and clover nestled next to lettuce and kale, borage and harebell buzzed with bees. Autumn came and bent the branches, and the garden set itself to seed.

Spring arrived and pushed against the dark. Over the seasons, things thrived and died and through it all, I learnt to let go. For a decade, we nurtured its barren ground back into being until it was rich with life. It even won awards but, to many, it was still seen as simply a “mess”, or, at best, a symptom of benign neglect. 

Yet, the wild garden taught me something very important. It taught me that sometimes, losing control is exactly what we need to do. We need to step out of our own way and let nature do what it needs to do. I needed to grieve. I needed to hurt. I needed to feel the rage and the sadness, and in those broken places, I found what grew – a life that was resilient, beautiful and full of joy. If I had not let go, I would not have discovered those things. 

As we face so much that is difficult, as we look into a future that can feel fragile and bleak, it is hard to know how to hold onto hope. Maybe, just maybe, the weeds are whispering the answer. Perhaps it is time to let our gardens – that symbol of human control – grow wild. 

Victoria Bennett is founder of Wild Women Press. Her debut memoir, All My Wild Mothers – Motherhood, Loss and an Apothecary Garden is published by Two Roads Books (2023)