By Rachel Singh | BACP Accredited Therapist | Autism Specialist
For me, the shift from the busy “doing” mode of the day into a more grounded state often begins the moment I step onto the allotment. There’s a noticeable change—whether it’s stopping to observe the small black caterpillars clustered along the branches and spine of the blackcurrant hedgerow right now, or the familiar rhythm of watering the leeks, beets, sweetcorn, and pumpkins. These everyday tasks become a kind of ritual: a way to unwind, return to my breath, and gently reconnect with my body. In these moments, mindfulness arises not through effort but through presence—through noticing, pausing, and allowing the natural world and my inner world mirroring a slower pace.
This daily reconnection with the land has become more than just a practical task—it’s a core part of how I support my own mental health. As a therapist and mindfulness teacher, I know the research behind nature’s impact on wellbeing, but experiencing it viscerally, season by season, has deepened my understanding in ways that theory alone cannot.
What I experience at the allotment is echoed in a growing body of psychological and ecological research that highlights the restorative effects of nature on the nervous system. Studies have shown that even brief, mindful interactions with green spaces can reduce cortisol levels, lower blood pressure, and improve mood and cognitive function. The International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health published extensive evidence showing how naturebased interventions can alleviate symptoms of anxiety, depression, and emotional dysregulation.
What resonates most with me from this research is the emphasis on embodied connection – noticing sounds, smells,
textures—and how this sensory presence supports emotional regulation.
Co-hosting and tending to a local allotment has opened up an unexpected space—not just to grow vegetables, but to grow in awareness, patience, and connection with nature. It began with a shared intention to cultivate some seasonal crops. Now the allotment has become a place of quiet learning, radical acceptance, and mindfulness in action.
The Garden as a Mindfulness Teacher
Jon Kabat-Zinn, pioneer of mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR), speaks of attitudes that support the cultivation of mindfulness: beginner’s mind, non-striving, patience, trust, acceptance, and letting go. Each of these values shows up when working with the land.
- Beginner’s Mind is a daily companion. As someone relatively new to growing food, I meet each plant with curiosity rather than assumption. What does this particular vegetable need? What does this patch of soil offer? Each plant has its own language of care—beetroots prefer a loose, rich soil; leeks demand delicate handling in their infancy. Learning to meet these needs without rushing ahead invites a tender presence.
- Non-Striving became apparent early on. I arrived at the plot in “doing mode,” eager to dig, sow, and clear bindweed. Yet gardening doesn’t reward impatience. One day, in a moment of flurry, I tore open a packet of carrot seeds and spilled them across the bed. Instead of trying to ‘fix’ the situation, I had to practice radical acceptance. Now, I wait and see what emerges, releasing control over where and how the carrots might flourish.
- Acceptance and Trust became essential when the leeks appeared fragile and slow to thrive. Instead of despairing, I now water them gently each morning, adding a sprinkle of bone meal and simply noticing how their small bodies begin to stand taller. They teach me to trust in natural timing, not my own internal deadlines.
- Letting Go is a practice in itself—especially when trying to outpace the birds to the ripe raspberries!
The Dance of Growth
Among the plants, the sweetcorn is perhaps the most magical. Watching its green stalks shoot up and unfurl feels like witnessing nature perform a slow, elegant dance. Its growth embodies both stillness and movement—rooted and reaching. Being in its presence invites me to mirror that same grounded openness in my own life.
I was fortunate recently to attend an inspiring training at RHS Wisley, where I learned about ‘nodig’ gardening—a practice that honours soil biodiversity and reduces disruption to the ecosystem.
It shifted something fundamental in how I approach the allotment. Gardening became less about conquering the land and
more about relating to it. This mirrored something I often explore in therapeutic work: moving from control toward relationship, from dominance to dialogue.
The Wellbeing Connection
Spending time outdoors and engaging with nature is increasingly recognised as essential to our wellbeing. According to the RHS, gardening can significantly reduce stress, improve mood, and even help with symptoms of anxiety and depression (RHS Health and Wellbeing). For me, the allotment has become a place of reconnection. With the land, with myself, and with a slower, more responsive way of being.
In a fast-paced world where we’re often pulled into overthinking or overdoing, the garden calls us back to the senses. The feel of soil in your hands, the sight of raspberries blushing in the sun, the sound of birdsong overhead—all of these offer portals to the present moment.
This connection between nature and healing is explored beautifully in Back to Nature by Chris Packham and Megan McCubbin. Their reflections speak to how immersion in wild spaces offers not just beauty or distraction, but a sense of belonging and grounding. They describe nature as “a necessity, not a luxury”—a sentiment I share wholeheartedly.
Similarly, The Wild Remedy by Emma Mitchell offers a deeply personal and poetic account of using the natural world as a means of managing depression. She writes with raw honesty about how observing small details—lichen on bark, the flight path of birds, the rhythm of the seasons— helped soothe her inner turbulence. As I read her words, I found myself nodding in recognition. The small, slow moments of gardening—the shift in the colour of a leaf, the rhythm of watering – aren’t just part of tending the land. They’re part of tending the self.
Nature as Therapist
As a therapist, I’ve long believed in the value of somatic awareness and embodied presence. But the allotment is reminding me daily of something deeper—that tending to nature is also a way of tending to ourselves.
I’m also struck by a quote recently shared with me by Louise, a fellow nature lover:
“No one will protect what they don’t care about; and no one will care about what they have never experienced.” – David Attenborough
This speaks so deeply to the power of direct experience. If we can connect with even a tiny patch of soil, a single plant, or a fleeting birdcall, we begin to feel a sense of belonging and responsibility. We begin to care. And that care extends not only outward, but inward too.
In my own work with neurodivergent individuals, particularly those who experience Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria or chronic overwhelm, these kinds of grounding, sensory-based mindfulness practices are often more accessible than traditional seated meditation. Nature offers a gentle
entry point into presence. Whether it’s the crunch of gravel underfoot, the texture of damp earth, or the sound of bees weaving through lavender, these moments provide regulation through connection.
The allotment continues to be a space where I practice what I teach: mindfulness that is lived, felt, and rooted in the body. It’s not always neat or quiet—sometimes it’s muddy, unpredictable, or filled with caterpillars—but that, too, is part of its medicine.
A Gentle Invitation
You don’t need to have an allotment to begin. Perhaps it’s a windowsill herb, a walk in the park, or simply sitting outside with a cup of tea and noticing what you see. Whatever the access point, nature invites us into relationship, not performance. There is nothing to strive for. There is just this: the gentle rhythm of growth, the cycle of seasons, the breath moving in and out.
If you’ve ever felt the pull toward green spaces, toward the quiet wisdom of plants and soil, I encourage you to follow it. Not as another thing to do, but as a place to be. Whether it’s a windowsill pot, a park bench, or a full allotment, nature invites us to step out of urgency and into relationship with ourselves, our breath, and the world around us
In this shared space of being, I have learned and continue to experience a sense of coming home to ourselves.