No one knows this garden like I do.

"No one knows this garden like I do."

That phrase kept replaying in my mind again and again as I weeded out the raised beds at my parent's home. When I first moved back from Australia, I took those raised beds on and I learned how to garden. When I knew I would be moving away I filled the beds with Florida native flowers that would continue to grow without needing excessive care. But the garden got overgrown and needed weeding. So on my last visit home I took to it. I could see where my mom had tried to pull some weeds and could tell that she got confused as to what was a weed and what was a plant. And how could she know? It wasn't really her garden.

"No one knows this garden like I do."

Since I took those raised beds on, I've watched and learned the seasons. I know what weeds are going to come up in the spring and what weeds are going to arrive in the summer. I know what they look like, what their roots act like. I know where to grab them to avoid getting stung. I know their tricks and how they like to hide among look-alikes. I also know what I've planted and where. I know what lies dormant and will come alive in its due time. And as I weeded those raised beds, my fingers remembering and finding their way about the soil, I pondered much as I always had.

Since anxiety decided to take a big bite out of my ass, one that forced me to pay attention and deal with it, I've been navigating counseling. So far I'm on counselor number two. Counselor 1 and 2, though entirely different, have taken a very similar approach with me- both have encouraged me to keep on the journey I've been on; both have made affirming me and my journey priority above giving correction or asking hard questions. To which my frustrated inner response has been, "If what I've been doing was working then why on earth am I seeing you?" The answer, I think, is that no one knows this garden like I do.

When I first took on those raised beds, every day was a lesson. Those raised beds were my Eden where I really sat and gleaned with God. One day as I was learning how to tell the difference between weeds versus something that was planted, I was struck by the tangible metaphor that was before me. Not only was I learning to decipher plants from weeds amidst the dirt and the leaves, but I was being taught how to decipher plants from weeds in the garden that is my story. There were so many things in my life that I uprooted because I was taught to believe that they were weeds and likewise, there were so many weeds I allowed to grow and to spread because I was taught to believe that they were true and good plants- plants planted by God. Here God was showing me things that He had planted and things that He did not plant, but had been allowed to grow and together we were on our way to restoring my garden. One of my counselors keeps telling me that I'm on my way and that I've been on my way for some time now. Maybe what she's saying is that no one knows this garden like I do.

I still struggle immensely with trusting myself. After spending so much time in a christian culture that capitalizes on humanity's wretchedness and fallen nature, it takes a while to de-program and let trust and affirmation permeate every facet of your life. I like to think that I got in this cave of anxiety and depression because of some failing of my own, but the truth is that life happens and every patch of dirt has its own weeds and struggles. I just need to trust my fingers to know the difference; to know when to uproot and when to wait. I need to trust that I know the difference between weeds that choke and destroy and plants that bless and enrich. I need to trust myself and rest in the beautiful truth that no one knows this garden like I do and the reason that I know it so well is because He has met me here and is ever present.

Perhaps the greatest instrument of healing I have amidst my pages of trauma, having been led to believe one thing or another about myself, is to know myself better and be able to weed out the lies with my own two hands.

No one knows this garden like I do.