I was nature-starved, then I remembered I had a backyard

In 2012, I bought a rusty, yellow Sprinter cargo van. Why? To go see nature. To go be in nature. I spent six months installing rickety planks of wood and metal and clearance sale cabinetry in the van to build a little home, then rode off into the sunset away from home to ‘go West’ and see nature. It was every dirtbag climber cliché you’ve heard of, but before the era of Instagram influencers. I bought a van because it was a means to finally ‘connect with Mother Nature’.

As a Floridian growing up in the hustle and bustle of Miami, then falling in love with rock climbing at an indoor gym in Tallahassee, I thought I had to leave my surroundings to properly experience nature. I believed that ‘real’ nature was at least a five-hour drive away.

For years, I pursued outdoor recreation as a means to commune with the environment. To get closer to nature, I climbed higher, hiked further, ventured deeper into the backcountry. I’d pack up my car, drive as far as I could, hoist on a backpack, and walk even further. Travel, to be in nature, became the core of my identity. I visited all 50 states, lived full-time in multiple vehicles, and flew all over the world to find nature.

Perhaps you know the feeling—I think we call it wanderlust. It’s that insatiable desire to be out there, experiencing the world, soaking in the environment around us. We think of experiencing nature, and suddenly picture ourselves in a national park, or some faraway landscape. We want to go, we want to get out there—because is there any feeling better than being in the great outdoors?

One rainy week in March 2020, my world abruptly shrunk. All of our worlds shrank. My flights were canceled, my trips postponed, and even local hiking trails were off limits. In those weeks that turned to months of lockdown, I thought I lost my nature-based identity. I felt separated from her, desperate to return to what I believed to be who I was.

Between isolation, fear, frustration and global crisis, my mental health quickly fell to shambles during the pandemic—and partly because I felt disconnected from nature without my usual means of being outdoors. I spent my days depressed and anxious, but I could literally feel my brain chemistry change when I would take a beat to watch a bird or touch lavender leaves.

I simply wasn’t paying attention, and maybe you haven’t been either. Nature is in abundance in iconic national parks, yes, but nature is equally worthwhile out our back door too.

Without much to work with, I started looking for nature anywhere—within the confines of my home, that is. I began noticing the way little neon spiky balls were growing on the sycamore tree branches facing my upstairs office window. I watched patterns swirl through clouds from my 2’x6’ balcony, and learned what time of day a sliver of the tiny patio would take a direct hit from the sun.

I appreciated the sun more, how she charges me up with her touch. I appointed myself caretaker of the lavender bushes that lined our block’s shared walkway, and became infatuated with the bees who floated above the waves of purple. It was the closest thing I had to ‘the outdoors’ as I once knew it. I watched migratory birds fly on their way to and from the Great Salt Lake, and felt longing to ‘get back out there.’

According to a 2021 research study published by the Mental Health Foundation, “people who are more connected with nature are usually happier in life and more likely to report feeling their lives are worthwhile.” To that, I say, well, duh.

Five months into the pandemic, we moved across town to a 1960s suburban home on a half-ish acre. The property had been tended to by a Master Gardener for the last 20 years, and it quickly became the center of my universe. Between the constraints of pandemic living and the demands of stewarding 11 fruit trees, nine raised garden beds, and 19 different irrigation zones, my backyard became my portal to nature. I was deeply connected to it, due in no small part to the fact that this slice of it was entirely reliant on my care. As I tended the plants in my gardens over the last four years, I’ve cultivated a profound new relationship to nature.

But this isn’t actually anything new. 

For my entire life, my backyards have been my mainline to the outdoors, to Mother Earth. From our nightly post-dinner family walks around the neighborhood to every backyard and balcony I’ve rented, my life has been in constant engagement with nature.

I simply wasn’t paying attention, and maybe you haven’t been either. Nature is in abundance in iconic national parks, yes, but nature is equally worthwhile out our back door too. And much more accessible too.

The evidence is clear. A 2019 Scentific Reports study concluded 120 minutes a week in nature is tied to good health and wellbeing, “the amount of greenspace in one’s neighborhood, or the distance of one’s home to the nearest publically accessible green space or park is only one way of assessing an individual’s level of nature exposure. An alternative is to measure the amount of time individuals actually spend outside in natural environments.” 

When I visit my childhood home in Miami these days, I rarely leave the property. Turns out, the best nature in town was kept right within reach all along.

It isn’t just about where we go; it’s about how often we go. And it’s a lot easier to open your patio doors or take a walk to the local park than it is to plan an entire road trip to some grand adventure somewhere. Spending 120 minutes a week outdoors to improve your wellbeing can be as easy as drinking your morning coffee outside every day. Perhaps you’ll start to notice the birds while you’re out there, then the trees, then the little bugs, and every detail of this earth around you.

Recently, I’ve been revisiting the story I told myself about needing to ‘go West’ to seek grand experiences with nature, and realized it was with me all along––backyard in Miami, trash garden in the back of our Tallahassee rental, a small container garden on a second story patio in Denver, the row of lavender on Jefferson Street. Now I see nature everywhere I go, from my backyard to city centers to the backcountry to highway ditches. 

Where is your closest gateway to nature? Is it an apartment balcony, your backyard, the dog park around the block with that one tree that always blooms so pretty during spring? For me, during winter, it can even just be a houseplant inside. The earth is alive all around us, and we are constantly connected to the greater ecosystem we reside in.

When I visit my childhood home in Miami these days, I rarely leave the property. Turns out, the best nature in town was kept right within reach all along. The unbelievably massive staghorn fern hanging from the sea grape tree. The tiny frogs who get stranded in the pool and need a little lift back to safety. The white clusters of flowers that will soon become avocados. On my last visit, I saw hummingbirds in our yard for the first time in 30 years.

Nature is all around us, always. Just open your front (or back) door. 

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